Bread and Games
by QuillerQueen
Summary: Ancient Rome AU. Sentenced to fight in the arena, Robin only has one wish: to win his freedom back, and with it his son and his life. As different as Regina's background is, her own struggle is dauntingly similar, and she takes the wayward thief under her protection. Fortuna has smiled upon them when their paths first crossed and set things in motion, but the gods are fickle...
1. Chapter 1

_**Ave, reader! Welcome to my new OQ Ancient Rome AU. Despite the research for this story as well as my long-lasting love of ancient history, I'm by no means an expert on the subject, so I only hope any mistakes I'm sure I'll make along the way are not too glaring or distracting. Please sit back and enjoy the ride**_ _ _—_ **and feel free to feed the bard!**  
_

 _ **TW: mari** **tal rape. The scene** **is short and marked** **###[TW applies]### so that it's easily skippable, although the topic itself may come up in brief mentions in future chapters.**_

 _ **Rated M for the aforementioned + allusions to adult themes, as well as due to plans for future smut.**_

* * *

 _The sand was hot against his cheek and wet with blood already—quite possibly Robin's own—as he struggled to bring the arena and his rearing opponent back into focus. The throbbing headache wasn't helping. Neither was the blinding sunshine glinting off the blade of the gladius still clutched in his hand. He needed to stand and fight. Now. Before the Gaul declared his mortal enemy trapped him on the ground with the weighted net, then finished him off with his dagger like a pig at slaughter._

 _No, Robin couldn't afford to die such a death. He couldn't afford to die at all. For he had a reason to live, and a promise to keep._

 _Heavy-limbed and addle-brained by the harsh blow earlier sustained, Robin rose to his feet, gripped the sword in one hand and the bulky shield in the other, ignored the burning ache spreading like wildfire in his tiring arms and shoulders, and stared death in the face._

Robin'd had no idea Death had such a beautiful face. Perhaps he wouldn't have struggled so hard against it had he known.

Death had gorgeous eyes, large and soft and of a depth he was eager to dive into, with long lashes that glistened with unshed tears. She had soft hands, a gentle touch upon his cheeks as she cradled his head on her lap. Lips that trembled upon a shuddered exhale, and dark hair piled high atop her lovely head but for the curls framing her face.

She was soft and inviting, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and revel in her caress.

But he couldn't do that.

A different set of curls awaited Robin's embrace, curls and dimples and a joyous laugh, and Robin had to live.

 _The Gaul was mean and vicious, now twirling the net above his head, now brandishing the trident the length of a grown man. Robin envied him the freedom of movement as he himself battled not only his foe but the weight of his heavy armour, too. He was strong, his arms well-muscled and his shoulders broad, but his true strength lay in agility, and that was not a skill he could capitalise on in the murmillo fighting style._

 _The crowd booed at their incessant circling, and soon a barrage of rotten food and insults landed upon their heads. The Gaul bristled and, baited successfully, hurled the net in Robin's direction. Robin dodged, the overlarge shield a casualty of his manoeuvre, and launched into attack with just the short sword left. His aim was true, the blade plunging right into the Gaul's stomach, one merciless twist having the man's guts spilling out. But alas, Robin fared little better—no sooner did the Gaul topple to the ground than Robin felt the sharp prongs of the trident piercing his own side._

 _Death looked remarkably like a fisherman, Robin thought before his knees buckled and he collapsed next to the corpse of a man whose name he'd never learned._

Teetering on the brink of this world and the realm of Pluto, Robin searched for an anchor, and found one in dark curls. He held on to that: the mop of curls on his boy's head he would once again run a hand through; and the locks he tangled his fingers in now, tumbling free once he'd coaxed the gold pin our of her hair.

She was not Death, this goddess with glistening eyes and soft hands that cooled his burning skin with skilled movements. Not by any means. She was the giver of life, the orchestrator of Robin's rebirth—as weeks before at his trial, so now again in the dank cells of the ludus.

* * *

Regina gazes at her reflection in the polished metal, hands a touch unsteady as she applies kohl to enhance her eyes while trying not to move her head lest there be burns.

"One last strand, domina," Clodia assures as she wraps the remaining lock around the cylinder and inserts it to the metal outer heated on the fire, waiting to achieve that perfect curl Regina's naturally wavy hair doesn't quite manage otherwise.

A clamour of voices announces the usual morning influx of visitors, and Regina lets out a small sigh. Leopold will already have taken his post in the atrium, ever ready to greet his dependents with that paternal, and oft patronising, smile on his thin lips. A smile that will turn into a discontented grimace if Regina dares tarry much longer. She hastily rubs rose petals into her cheeks to imitate that coveted healthy, flushed look—and smiles bitterly. Years ago, she wouldn't have had to use cosmetics to achieve it, but now…

Now she's the wife of a wealthy, popular, influential senator. Has been for nigh ten years now, since she married into one of Rome's oldest, most respected families. Regina still recalls the day she donned the bridal veil and sacrificed her dolls to the household spirits—sacrificed her life to the ambitions of her mother. Remembers how the flame of her torch flickered as she shook uncontrollably, walking in procession from her childhood home to this vast, ancient house atop Palatine Hill.

So here she is today, playing the part her husband, and Rome, expects her to play: the part of dutiful wife and perfect Roman matron.

At least for the few weeks Leopold deigns to spend in Rome before he departs to his governorship in Hispania.

Leopold is rarely at home for long, ever restless since the death of his first wife. There was a time Regina loathed the loneliness of the domus devoid of company other than that of slaves, whom a respectable noblewoman is expected to treat with a certain measure of poised detachment—a task easily accomplished once she understands their loyalties lie with their dominus, with almost none left to spare their young new domina. There were indeed times when she longed for even her husband's cold shoulder in her desperation for human connection. Those times are long past, however, and his presence is nothing but stifling, choking, unnerving. Her home offers no reprieve with him in it, and very little indeed even when he's away, for she's well aware of the eyes and ears he leaves behind to spy and report on her every move.

Regina's bedroom opens directly into the atrium, now bustling with clients eager to seek affirmation of Leopold's protection. Sunshine's bursting in through the roof opening and spilling onto the sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged porticoes as she moves among toga-clad men, sharing dignified greetings and making sure Leopold catches sight of her going about her duties. He gives her a quick once-over and continues without pause to talk to Sidney, instructing him no doubt to hover over Regina's shoulder while he himself is, once again, absent from breakfast.

A smile—the first genuine one this morning—plays on Regina's lips as she enters the triclinium to witness her beloved men serving the food together. Her father isn't supposed to help, nor does he need to, for her son is perfectly capable of performing the task, but the two have a private sort of routine they like to partake in when the master of the house isn't there to admonish.

"Good morning, my dear," Daddy greets warmly, careful not to ruin her freshly coiffed hair as she kisses his cheek.

"Breakfast is served, Mom," her very own little sunshine announces with all the pomp of a nine-year-old squished in his mother's tight embrace.

They settle down, each of the three occupying a dining couch, and Regina winks at both Henrys before making a show of looking around the room in fake exasperation.

"And wherever could Roland be?" she gasps, eyes twinkling.

A stifled giggle issues from the carved chest in the corner, then small hands push the lid open, dark eyes and dark curls peeking out over the rim.

Breakfast fills Regina's belly with more than food, more than fish and fruit and bread. Warmth spreads inside her like a drop of honey in a cup of wine at Roland's chatter as she feeds him grapes; at the way Henry puts his heart and soul into the rhetoric exercise he insists on demonstrating for them; and at her father's easy manner, reserved solely for the rare occasion he gets to relax around his beloved daughter and grandson without the controlling presence of either his wife or son in law.

But the boys have lessons to attend, and so Regina and her father are left alone once Archie arrives to take his charges.

"Have you seen Leopold already?" Regina enquires, though she's sure he must have. Her father is one of many clients benefiting from Leopold's wealth and social standing, owing him their allegiance in turn. The familial connection between them means Daddy is given priority during these morning audiences.

"I have indeed. Your husband is very confident in his success managing the province, but he hardly knows the people. Their mentality, customs, and language shape their actions, and Rome's mining exploits have had a devastating impact there. I thought he might benefit from my experiences, but…"

"Leopold refuses to listen to counsel," Regina finishes for him. Because that's what Leopold would do, proud Roman and proud man that he is—dismiss others and their views as inferior to his own. Would do it with a benevolent smile rather than a mean retort, definitely, but he'd think he knows best all the same. That's one thing Regina's husband and her mother have in common.

"He made a point to remind me of, well," Daddy hesitates, eyes downcast in shame, "of the decline of my political career following my quaestorship there."

Regina's blood boils—hot southern blood, same as her father's, for he has southern roots, understands the people of those lands better than most. It had been his unsolicited advice delivered to the senate, advice that they relax the Roman fist gripping Hispania and her natural resources before the land and its people are drained of the riches both the natives and Rome could benefit from much longer if only handled with care and compassion. But Rome isn't famous for either of those; Rome is competitiveness and ambition, a race to the top where glory awaits. And so Regina's father, having only reached the second step of that almighty ladder of political office, the Cursus Honorum, is a failure by Roman standards, a disgrace to his family name and the cause of its fading from importance. That he's even still a senate member is mostly due to Leopold's influence and Henry's own meekness—he doesn't kick up much dust, so he's tolerated, if not necessarily liked.

Leopold may act the gracious son in law, but he'll still let a snide remark escape now and again, a circumspect way of putting Regina's father in his place when the latter dares be too assertive about anything. The subject of such disputes has almost exclusively been Regina on the handful of occasions. Daddy's made a few feeble attempts to bring some freedom or happiness into his daughter's life by exercising his rights as paterfamilias—her father still retains those over Regina, after all, even though it is common knowledge far and wide (and that certainly doesn't help his position any) that Cora is in fact head of the household. And it is by her will that Regina has effectively been handed over to the legal control of Leopold, despite the fact that the practice is outdated by today's standards.

The thought has Regina's anger dissipate, leaving only hollowness in its place. She can no more protect her father from Leopold than her father could her.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispers, and receives an apology in return.

That's when the messenger arrives, giving Regina's tearful father an excuse to depart. Regina retires into the shadow of a column and delves into the letter penned by her exiled sister Zelena, detailing upon Regina's request the progress of one gravely wounded gladiator.

* * *

The delirious dreams have mostly gone, his fever subsided. Robin's lucidity has returned, and with it the ability to sift through memories and sort them on a timeline. No longer does he thrash in his sleep then jerk awake to frantically search for Marian's warm body beside him, taking a good while to realise that she's long gone. He still visits the hellish dreamscape on occasion wherein he walks a lonely path alongside a Gaulish fisherman holding his ripped-out guts in his hands—a nightmare alright, one he suspects will haunt him for years to come, but still a mere trifle compared to the agony of reliving the loss of his wife over and over again while wracked by a fever. So yes, he's still weak, his wounds deep and sore, but his temperature and faculties are back to normal, and that's something at least.

It is certainly deemed enough for him to be returned from the solitary infirmary unit to the large cell shared by the bulk of the gladiators. He's expected to take his meals with the other men, and fend for himself, wounds be damned, when John the Little, first among the brotherhood and nurturing no warm feelings for Robin, ventures to pilfer Robin's due and enhance his own portion with it. When training commences, Robin hovers on the sidelines, watching in hopes of picking up a handy trick or two to try and master later. Later, when he's fit again to stand on the sacred sand and fight for the freedom ripped away from him.

That's what he's fighting for—freedom. The wooden rudis that, when bestowed upon a gladiator, marks him as a free man. But such a prize must be hard-earned, with sweat and blood and, yes, tears. Tears not so much of pain from the sting of the lash or the bite of a blade, but from a deep-seated heartache, a yearning not easily quenched. A hankering after that dimpled grin, those winking eyes, the tousled hair of his boy. That's who he's fighting for—Roland.

Robin misses his son above all else, and the ache his absence leaves in Robin's heart burns stronger than the nasty gash the trident left in his side.

Amid the ache blooms hope and gratitude, a sentiment now grown threefold. Robin owes his life to Regina, a noblewoman with an unpropitious reputation and an absolutely wondrous heart, twice over now. But his greatest debt to her is for taking Roland into her care. She saved a lowly thief and made him a promise, a promise to keep his son safe and as happy as possible in the absence of his father, for as long as that absence would last. There's no doubt in Robin's mind that her words were sincere, that his boy, though miles away from his embrace, is in good hands with her. Gentle, deft, capable hands.

Those hands—he remembers them with astounding clarity, even though the night he first awoke in the dreary cell is still shrouded in mystery for the most part. The single, sharpest image is that of Regina's tear-stained face as she hovered above him, her clothes soaked with his blood, and stroked his cheek with a feather-light touch. She must have stayed the night, he reckons, for he recalls waking a few times to the sweet smell of jasmine, and burying his nose in the blood-stained silk of her stola. (Or was it her skin? Has there ever been skin so soft?)

For the hundredth time, Robin wonders what possessed her to risk so much for a perfect stranger, a self-professed criminal no less. For the hundredth time, he comes up empty. Will he ever get a chance to ask her?

* * *

The sacred fire burns scarlet and gold, day and night, casting the goddess Vesta's protection over the city. It's the Vestals' task to see that the flames are never extinguished, and one such approaches the temple as Regina steps from behind one of its slender columns.

"Still in Rome, then?" Tinkerbell huffs with a hint of exasperation, the red and white ribbons woven into her fair hair bouncing with each step.

"What a warm welcome," Regina quips, then lowers her voice—it's only the two of them at this early hour, but one can never be careful enough. "I cannot leave just yet."

Tinkerbell nods—they've been through this before, and she's close enough with Regina to understand the state of her marriage better than most. Enough to drop the subject, and move on to one that clearly interests her most.

"How's your thief faring?"

"He's not _my_ thief," Regina bristles, with a touch too much vehemence. Tinkerbell raises her brow knowingly, and Regina rolls her eyes and relents. She has had a hand in aiding him after all, so she supposes he could, in a way, be deemed hers. Her protege. "He's—better. Though not by much, I fear. Zelena's been a bit too cryptic for my liking." Zelena wouldn't lie to her, Regina is sure, but suspects her sister might be withholding information. Perhaps for the sake of her husband; or perhaps she hopes to deliver all the sordid details in person once Regina grows frustrated enough to invite her to the bustling capital. If that's the case, Zelena is out of luck, for Regina has no intention to remain here a second longer than absolutely necessary. "I've assured her over and over again that money is not an issue, that I will cover all expenses: the best medicus, and whatever costly medicine he needs—"

"You, Regina," Tinkerbell interrupts emphatically, as though it could not be any more obvious. "He needs you."

With Regina's sharp intake of breath comes an onslaught of panic, and it stirs the fear lodged deep in her heart.

"No, stop that, Tinkerbell," she blurts, voice strained with emotion. Fear, yes; and then, oddly enough, regret. "It's not like that—you know it can't be." But she can't afford to admit to that regret, to dig deeper to its source, for it's a futile, treacherous, dangerous thing she must weed out before it hurts her—or someone else. It's a miracle all parties in this little charade of hers remain more or less unscathed, and how can Tinkerbell not understand Regina's guilt and anguish? "Haven't I done enough for him already? Prevented his execution, negotiated a milder punishment, taken in his child? I've risked enough, I've risked everything—"

"So have I, don't you remember?"

Regina deflates at that, leans against the cool column for support, and closes her eyes.

"Of course I remember," she sighs. "You know I'm beyond grateful."

"I helped save a good man and did my friend a favour." Tink finds her hand and squeezes. "I have no regrets, Regina. Though not for lack of trying on the part of Vestalis Maxima, mind you."

Regina glances at Tink sympathetically.

"Still in the doghouse, then?"

"Oh yes. I don't think Blue will ever forgive me for driving a wedge between the Vestals and the Dark One."

Regina scoffs. Blue's been mistreating her childhood friend since Tinkerbell was chosen to join the Vestals at ten, but even she can't blame the chief priestess for her dismay at having gained an enemy the calibre of Rumplestiltskin.

"I imagine having antagonised both Rome's prominent censor and its most bellicose praetor in a single morning is quite the reason for outrage."

"Well, as long as it's for a good cause. It is, isn't it?" Tinkerbell turns to her with such insistence Regina would take a step back if only the cold marble wasn't in the way. "You're going to see this through, Regina, aren't you?"

Regina swallows, eyes flitting to Vesta's merrily blazing fire, fighting to stifle the embers smoldering within her with common sense.

"I will see to it that he's back in that arena earning his freedom, and a good life for him and his son," comes her stubborn answer.

Tinkerbell gives a small sound of disapproval, shakes her head at the inadequacy of Regina's response, but shrugs with a small, knowing smile.

"It's a start."

###

Regina has errands to run, ones that need attending to and will serve to justify her absence so early in the morning besides. Unfortunately, this also means she misses breakfast with the boys, and their next break is only due at lunchtime. The conversation at the Temple of Vesta had stirred gnawing doubts and fears she hasn't been able to silence since, however, and waiting until lunch to see them, hear their laughter and kiss their foreheads, is out of the question.

"Regina," Archie greets with polite surprise when she enters the peristyle.

Henry looks up from the poem he's been analysing, a bright smile on his face when he spots her. A curly little ball of energy crashes into her legs, the tickle of Roland's unruly hair eliciting a chuckle from her.

"R'gina! I missed you," cries the little man, and plants a kiss upon her cheek. Regina strokes through his curls, a silly little lump rising in her throat at the boy's easy confession. He's warmed up to her almost immediately, although a sense of gloominess lingers mostly in the evenings, when he misses his father most.

"Yeah, Mom, we missed you at breakfast," Henry chimes in, wrapping his arms around her and turning up his face for her to kiss his forehead—an affectionate gesture that gives them both comfort. "Did you have a good morning?"

"I did," she confirms, "and I bought more of those apples you like so much. Maybe we can bake in the afternoon."

The boys' eyes light up with glee—and then the light dims. Roland's arms clutch tighter, whereas Henry tears himself away from her, strives to stand up straight as his eyes widen and his chin quivers.

Regina recognises that look, knows who must have caused it, and shuts her eyes briefly at Leopold's sharp voice.

"You will do no such thing," he states from the columned passage surrounding the garden. "Henry, deliver today's lectio."

Henry gulps, his eyes darting from Leopold to Regina to Archie, then settle on a spot just above Leopold's shoulder. He tries, and tries valiantly, but stumbles on the words, those trusty friends turned deceitful foes now by the overwhelming fear of this cold man he's to call father.

"It's my fault," Regina rushes to say. "I shouldn't have interrupted the lesson."

"No," Leopold says coldly, "you shouldn't have." He looks at Roland in her arms next, and the poor child buries his head in Regina's neck. "Nor should you have brought that boy here. He cannot benefit from a grammaticus, and only provides distraction to my son's betterment. Henry is too old for tales and games now."

Regina's every pore is screaming, yelling at this ignorant man who knows nothing about _her_ son. Leopold's dry taste knows not to value Henry's creativity or his vivid imagination, nor does he appreciate his other qualities: his intelligence, compassion, or his kind heart. He sees that arithmetic comes hard to Henry, but not Henry's tenacity and hard work to master the hateful subject. Leopold doesn't deserve a son like Henry; Henry deserves a much better father than Leopold has ever been to him. So Regina is screaming on the inside; but on the outside, she's all stoic calm and deference, if slightly too rigid and emanating tension—but Leopold has never bothered getting to know her enough to notice such things. _Rein it in, Regina_ , she repeats inwardly, a tired mantra by now, _it won't be much longer now_.

"Shall I continue the lesson?" Archie cuts in, and thank goodness the docile man has more courage than many would suspect by his unassuming demeanour.

Leopold looks him up and down with a tight frown. It is no secret that he thinks him inadequate, deems him way too soft on Henry, but he's also not nearly present or invested enough to do anything about it other than criticise Regina's failure to raise Henry according to his expectations.

"Take care not to coddle him too much, grammaticus," Leopold orders, proving Regina right once more. "A young man his age must be guided with a firm hand to grow up to bring honour to this family."

Henry's jaw is set, his eyes trained on his feet when Leopold walks past him without another word or indeed a glance his way. Regina reaches for Henry, but he doesn't return the gesture, so she doesn't push him anymore, remains standing with a soft hand on his shoulder, giving him space with an aching heart raw with reawakened guilt. Guilt that she's powerless against Leopold, can't protect her child from him in moments like this.

"It wasn't your fault, Mom," Henry pipes up then. "It was mi—"

"Leopold's fault," she shakes her head, squeezing his shoulder. "Never yours, sweetheart." For she won't have him feeling guilty for this, never for the crippling fear Leopold inspires in him.

He launches herself forward then, wraps his arms around her neck pressing himself and Roland to her.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, Henry."

With her cheeks and eyes burning, she turns to Archie. He's far from her confidant, but he's one of the few people she's fairly confident are loyal to her rather than her husband. Henry is Archie's true priority, a fact proven by his willingness to oppose her when he sees fit, even at the potential cost of his job. Regina respects that, and Henry works well with his teacher.

"Thank you for taking Roland even though you didn't have to. I won't trouble you anymore. I'll teach him myself from now on." She did it with Henry after all; she can manage again with Roland.

The little boy clings to her even more at the sound of his name, holds on to her as one would to a lifeline.

Regina realises with a pang that that's exactly what she's become to him.

### _[TW applies]_ ###

The knock on her door comes near midnight, and Regina's stomach drops. She knew it was coming, but with the lateness of the hour was beginning to hope he'd fallen asleep, that he'd no longer send for her. Cold sweat beads on her brow as she takes a shuddering breath and opens the door to find Sidney on the other side.

"Domina," he says reverently, devouring her with a greedy look that swipes up and down her body, and Regina pushes back a shudder. "Dominus wants you."

 _Let's get it over with._

It never lasts long with him, and that's the only blessing on the nights Leopold has her visit his bedroom. He always requests her presence before departure, so she's been bracing herself for this moment for days. It doesn't make it any more pleasant or less repulsive, and certainly no less denigrating. His fingers are clammy as they grip and clutch without regard to any marks he might leave. He's not violent, not quite that, but neither is he gentle. He simply cares nothing about anything other than his release, And he wouldn't be expected to either—Regina, like other Roman women, had been taught the woman's role is to lie still, and bear children. So she does the best she can, does the first thing at least, and suffers with gritted teeth and prickling eyes as he takes her, bites back bile and tears, and struggles to disassociate even though such efforts have always led to only partial success at best. A few frantic thrusts, and his final grunt releases her from this particular torment. Regina pulls the covers around her naked body, longing desperately for a scalding bath and a cleansing scrub. She can have neither tonight, but she'll make do with the knowledge that she won't have to bear his presence for more than a few hours more before he disappears from her life for months. Years, if she's lucky.

Yet even in his absence, he will keep an eye on her. Sidney's eye. The wandering, lecherous eye of Leopold's spymaster.

Well, Regina will just need to be careful.

###

She's up at the crack of dawn to see to the last preparations like the dutiful wife she'll remain for exactly two more hours. Leopold is sequestered in his office with a handful of senators—George, Midas, Rumplestiltskin of course, and David—discussing matters Regina isn't privy to. She wonders briefly if she could maybe catch David later, decides she might just have to decline Snow White's incessant invitations in writing if she can't.

Shortly before Leopold's planned hour of leave, Regina receives a visitor. The visit is unannounced but hardly unexpected.

"Cora sent you," Regina says softly, and her father sighs.

"Your mother only wants what's best for you," he says, and Regina nods—of course she does. Or maybe she doesn't. Either way, it's a phrase her father repeats every time Cora comes up. Perhaps to reassure Regina, or himself, or both, that Cora's cold calculations and entirely inappropriate meddling in affairs both personal and political are but a means to a noble end. Regina doesn't believe that, not anymore. Regina is fighting, albeit in silent mutiny and minute ways barely discernible to an outsider's eye, to reclaim her life as her own, and won't let her victories, small and scant as they might be, be pried away by her mother's ruthless hands.

"And what would that be this time?" she asks wearily.

"The usual," her father admits. "Cora reckons you'd be safest in our house while your husband is away."

"I have bodyguards, Daddy. And I can handle myself."

"She feels your reputation might suffer if you stay here all alone."

" _My_ reputation?" Perhaps mother should be more concerned with her own, then she might not have subjected her family to whispers and mockery from all of Rome. Her father is once again the one to bear the brunt of Regina's anger, and suddenly Regina is just—tired. "Tell mother not to worry. I will not be staying in my husband's house. Neither will I move back to yours."

"She's not going to like that."

"I know."

For the implications of her words are not lost on Henry. Despite the fact that Leopold owns a number of estates outside Rome, cool summer lodgings in the mountains nearby as well as farms and beach villas as far as Campania and Sicilia, her father understands perfectly well that Regina will not be staying at either of those.

Today, Leopold leaves for Hispania.

Come first light tomorrow, Regina will be on her way to Capua.

* * *

 ** _Thumbs up? Thumbs down?_** _ **This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)**  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Ave, shipmates! This update wasn't supposed to take this long, I promise you. Technology was unkind to me for a while and life happened, but at least I'll have managed to have this out by OUAT Sunday in the let's-keep-our-ship-alive spirit. Thank you so much for the warm welcome chapter one has received; I only hope you'll find the new one worth the wait.**_ _ **Our favourite soulmates even get to interact at last. ;)**_

 _ **A couple of notes before we begin. First, Zelena does feature in this story, but nothing of the gross rape storyline of S4 ever will. Second, I expect my take on Hades will differ from the show's, as I've not seen much of S5b, so I may not have his character down all that well - I hope you can overlook this.**_

 _ **Happy reading!**_

* * *

Life at the ludus follows a prescribed pattern, and a simple one at that. Morning meals doled out at the crack of dawn are followed by hours of strenuous training, a brief respite granted them for a midday meal when the sun climbs to its celestial peak before they throws themselves into yet more training under the crack of the whip. At the end of the day, the gladiators and the trainees gather in the large with their rations to sup on, then eventually retire to their tiny excuses for cells for the night. It's monotone though hardly boring, and so any and all diversions are met with cautious curiosity, if not excitement or outright anxiety in the case of those particularly reckless or particularly cautious. Today is one of those days that provide a distraction.

The doctore's whip stills the clatter of the men's practice swords; its next swish through the air sends them rushing into formation. Robin leaves the sidelines he was watching from and moves to join their ranks, gritting his teeth as each step sends a minuscule jolt of pain through his side. He stands between Alan, a slender, dreamy lad from somewhere in the Po Valley up north, and a man known as Grumpy, whose real name remains a mystery to all but most likely his actual brothers by blood, all seven of them similarly nicknamed.

Heads turn in unison to the balcony overlooking the training grounds just as Hades steps out to address the gathering. Tall and greying, with a penchant for tunics of heavy, dark materials regardless of weather or occasion, he towers over them with a grim expression befitting the lord of the underworld.

"Gladiators," he bellows without ceremony, "your ranks have swelled in recent weeks with men of all backgrounds and merits. But not everyone is worthy to bleed and die for the glory of this house. To preserve the good name of this ludus and of this family, it is my duty to purge the brotherhood of those that are too weak, be it in physique or character, to further its fame. Dwarfs, step forward."

The surly man on Robin's left breaks rank and moves forward, and so do six others. Robin only notices now that one is missing—there were eight.

No one knows whence these short fellows come or how they'd found themselves in the house of Hades—just that they'd been born slaves someplace other than Capua, for they're all branded with another master's mark. Their short stature is the only similarity that sets them apart as relations; their characters could hardly be more diverse. Except, that is, for one thing—their diligence. They're the first to start training and the last to finish, often carrying on with practice in the cell while others choose to play dice or simply rest. Yet no matter how many weapons or techniques they try or how hard they work, they've been lagging behind. There's been progress, yes, but they're not warriors. Even Alan, the bard-turned-gladiator, is ahead of them. Perhaps with enough time and the right approach, they would make good soldiers, Robin thinks—but the arena is a special kind of battlefield. Raw strength is not enough to become a legend; the crowd demands skill, prowess, showmanship.

True, the dwarfs would be a welcome curiosity in the arena even without considerable fighting skills, but Hades wants them to be more than comic relief—quite the contrary in fact. He wants them to win matches against all expectation, to leave the crowd in awe of their battlemastership.

And they're not doing that. Not fast enough anyway.

"Your hard work has not gone unnoticed," Hades says, a sardonic little smile playing on his lips. "And you will now be relocated where you can truly serve me best."

"Gods damn you to Tartarus," Grumpy spits, only loud enough for Robin to hear.

A simple gesture, and the guards seize the seven brothers, herding them to the exit in chains. Heavy manacles chafe at legs that will only kick up noxious dust instead of sacred sand, bind hands that will heretofore swing pickaxes instead of swords.

Where is the glory now, where is the fame?

It is disgusting, absolutely infuriating, the way Hades makes himself out as the benefactor of these people he's just condemned to an atrocious, inevitably short life in the mines. His mines—the mines that have made him rich through sweat and blood and countless lives puttering out before their time.

Where's the justice in that? Where's the honour?

The chain-gang moves amid chinking metal and shuffling feet—but not a word of protest uttered or even so much as a sneeze—as the seven are led to a slow, anonymous death.

A punishment if ever there was one, and they all know it. A warning to them all as they stand on the blood-washed sands; twisted motivation to push themselves harder, to rise to fame faster—or suffer the consequences.

"Serve your dominus and live," Hades speaks from his position of power. "Question your dominus, however…" He trails off, his lips curling, turns on his heel, and retires to the house.

The assembled men's heads turn once more as the guards drag a body out of the barracks. It's short and mangled almost beyond recognition, leaving a trail of blood on the hot sand.

The eighth brother, Stealthy, gambled with his life and lost it in an attempt to negotiate a better one.

###

Robin is summoned before Hades just as he's queueing for the evening meal (barley porridge again, and perhaps he's not missing out on much in the culinary department, but still he needs all the nourishment he can get), and he wonders inevitably if this is the end for him, too.

Stomach aching with hunger and his mind reeling, he walks up the stairs heavily, pressing a palm to his throbbing wound, then dropping his arm again. He mustn't show himself vulnerable before them, especially not before Hades, and certainly not today, after the spectacle staged for the gladiators' edification and warning. The last steps prove a challenge though as the world tilts and blurs, and Robin seeks brief leverage against the wall. Hunger, he thinks, it's just the lack of food in his belly causing the alarming reaction. Surely his dizziness has nothing to do with the persisting injury, surely it doesn't herald the return of fever.

Hades is sat behind his desk, a pile of coin towering before him, when Robin is led into the spacious room. He looks up at Robin with a malevolent glint in his eyes, and waits.

Robin stares back at him in silent defiance—insolence from a slave, he knows, and a luxury he can't afford if he's ever to buy back his life.

"Dominus," Robin grits through his teeth.

Hades smirks—that's one victory for him, then, and may he choke on it.

"Do you know why I summoned you?"

Robin has a shrewd idea, but deems it wiser to feign ignorance.

"Not quite, dominus."

"You were among the assembled this morning."

"I was," Robin says, amends, "dominus."

"Well in that case I'd expect you to have more than a shrewd idea. You were a citizen of Rome once after all—a free man, educated." The sheer mockery in his tone sets Robin's guts twisting, and he bites his tongue—he mustn't do anything foolish, mustn't show emotion at all. A task by no means easy, for Hades has more to say, his face hardening as he growls: "Yet you're no better now than the rest of your kind. This ludus breeds only the best. Anything less, and I have no use for you. I've been keeping you on as a favour to my brother-in-law, but my charity has limits."

Charity? Well that's rich. Hades hasn't even provided a medicus; if it hadn't been for Regina, Robin would be a bodiless soul wandering the depths of the underworld.

Hades turns his back on him, his words clipped and his hair taking on a peculiar bluish tint as he looks out upon the darkening sky.

"I expect you to join your brothers for training tomorrow. It's either the arena or the mines—gladiator."

* * *

The scorching heat has drained her of every last vestige of energy, and Regina is gulping down the third cup of water when her sister emerges from the villa's shaded portico.

"Regina! You weren't supposed to come," Zelena exclaims, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and, frankly, slightly comical with her over-the-top reaction.

"Thank you so much," Regina smirks at her sister's typical tactless self, "for the hearty welcome."

Zelena just rolls her eyes.

"Oh please, you know what I mean, sis."

"I believe that would be 'you weren't supposed to come because I had plans to visit you instead'," Regina teases, though with a grain of seriousness as she admonishes lightly. "Plans you never shared, might I add."

"You know me," shrugs Zelena, toying with her hair to let a bit of air under the thick red curls. "I always have plans to visit Rome. It's so exhilarating. The bustle, the intrigue, the power-play… All the things you despise so much. Sometimes I think you should have been the one to settle down in the countryside. Leave the urban pleasures to me."

"So do I," Regina says quietly, looking away as a twinge of old pain tugs at her heart.

Zelena sighs, her face twisting into a mask of exasperation. "That was a silly thing to say, Regina. Come now, let's get some refreshments to quell your hunger—and shut my big mouth."

There's juicy fruit and tasty fish and wine produced at the estate itself, strong and heady on its own but pleasantly refreshing when watered down. Regina settles back down on the dining couch, sighing in relief at having her travel-rattled limbs resting against soft cushions. The urge to ask about him, about Robin, immediately, is overwhelming, but Tinkerbell's words— _your_ _thief_ —ring like warning bells in Regina's head, prompting her to proceed with caution. She will at least suffer through the small talk first.

"Did you have a terrible journey?"

"It was all right, considering. Henry spent most of it poring over his arithmetics, and Roland kept drifting off only to wake up with all the renewed energy of a little boy on an adventure. They're both asleep now."

The afternoon siesta has put the household into a hushed slumber, and even the training grounds are free of the usual clamour of combat for a blessed hour or two.

"You brought the boy, then," Zelena states cautiously.

A tinge of tension percolates the stifling air.

Regina meets her eyes with a hint of defiance: "Both of them, yes."

She's had enough to contend with—judgement and concern both real and fake—since she took the child in, and she'd really rather not have to fight Zelena on this as well, but she will do so if need be.

Zelena chooses to skirt over the issue for now, even though they're both perfectly aware the matter will need to be addressed soon enough. She pops a grape into her month and frowns—not at the bitter taste of it, Regina can tell at once, for Zelena likes her fruit slightly on the tart side.

"I'm surprised you left Rome so soon after Leopold's departure. It will have tongues wagging, I'm sure."

"You sound just like Mother. Except she speaks to me through Daddy these days. I wish she stopped using him as a messenger. I can tell it plagues him to have to say the awful things he hardly means himself."

Too soft of heart to defy Cora, too meek, Regina's father is. It's been a source of frustration to her, Daddy's incapability to stand up to Cora—to stand up for Regina. It's been constantly nagging at her for as long as she remembers, adding a pinch of bitterness into their otherwise affectionate relationship. Zelena's been vocal about this fault of his before, angry on Regina's behalf on the few occasions Regina had voiced, with no small amount of guilt, the pang of hurt Daddy's failure to protect her leaves eating away at her. Zelena has questioned and criticised where Regina just suffers quietly, and Regina appreciates the sentiment, she really does, but she also loves her father, loves him dearly, and so she's forever torn between that love and the disappointment. She doesn't want to revisit that murky well of conflicting emotions, so she's beyond grateful when Zelena doesn't go down that particular path.

"Funny he should still write to me sometimes," Zelena wonders instead with a touch of wistfulness about her eyes, "and I'm not even his. Our dear mother, on the other hand… Well, she's certainly making good on her threats. I really am as good as dead to her."

Regina bites her tongue as her thoughts race, her very first one being _lucky you_ , and _perhaps it's better this way_ , traitorous things that invoke yet more of that guilt Cora knows so well how to turn to her benefit. Regina reminds herself she can't let her. She is entitled to her feelings, and they are what they are for a reason. Cora has hurt her, hurt her in ways far more horrible than even Zelena is fully aware, and so she pushes the guilt away and reminds Zelena of something else she has that Regina doesn't.

"You have your husband," she says, that old wound smarting again as Daniel's face swims before her eyes briefly. The rest remains unsaid but implied clearly enough that Zelena understands regardless— _you have a husband of your own choosing, one you love and who loves you back_. Zelena's brow pinches in sympathy, and Regina doesn't want that, not now anyway, because she's tired and anxious and what's the point of picking at old scars? So she adds, laying sarcasm on thickly: "As questionable as your taste may be."

"Now _you_ sound like mother," Zelena groans.

"No, I don't," comes Regina's vehement protest—being compared to Cora, even teasingly, fills her with dread and has her stomach twisting uncomfortably. "I dislike Hades for _him_ , not his social status."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Zelena pins Regina with a pronounced stare. They know each other and their shared proclivity for drama as a coping mechanism well enough to understand they're walking the tightrope with this conversation once again, that Regina and Hades remain as hostile to each other as ever, and that their adversity pains Zelena no matter how many layers of sarcasm they coat the matter in.

A thick, heavy silence stretches between them in the already stuffy summer heat, all the more pronounced due to the distant cacophony of gladiators back at training once again. Why must everything be so convoluted, a confusing maze of sentiments crossing and tangling, embroiling their family in a veritable Gordic knot—the many strands and conflicts just as impossible to unravel as its proverbial counterpart? That the two of them have retained their sisterly bond to this day is nothing short of a miracle. But Regina knows the gods have little credit to claim for this particular feat, that it's a testament to their stubbornness and their deep-seated craving for affection. Yet every moment spent together puts all of that at risk.

Suddenly Regina is tired. Well, that's not quite true, she was tired before, but now she's downright exhausted—too weary to do anything but throw caution to the wind and address the true reason of her visit directly.

"How is he?" Remembering Zelena's vague and evasive letters, she presses: "How is he _really_?"

Zelena looks at her askance and rises from the dining couch with a sigh. Regina follows suit, her eyes trained on Zelena's averted face—deliberate avoidance on her sister's part, and that does absolutely nothing to alleviate her rising anxiety.

"He's—he's alive, isn't he?"

Because if he's not, if he's died from his injuries, then it's her fault. It would be Regina's fault just as much as that damned Gaul who wielded the trident, if not more so. Robin has no place in the arena, and _she_ 'd put him there, thinking she was doing him a favour, saving him from death, from exile, from leaving his son an orphan to starve. How stupid of her, how terribly cruel. He doesn't belong in this world, doesn't have the killer instinct or the ambition to spur him on on this precarious career path. If he's dead, if she's _killed_ him—

Regina barely notices her arm hooked in Zelena's as she's being led upstairs, barely registers her surroundings until they step out on the balcony overlooking the training grounds, and Zelena finally answers Regina's question.

"See for yourself."

Regina blinks and directs her gaze down onto the jumble of bodies, sweat-slicked from exertion and glistening in the blazing sun. They shift and squirm, charge and dodge, sink onto the sand groaning only to rise again, and she finds it nigh impossible to distinguish a single man in the tangle of bodies ever on the move. She catches herself looking out for a golden speck of sunshine against fair hair, or tickling that stubble that sets him apart—she's actually seeking Robin among the gladiators' number. A foolish endeavour, surely, for his injuries are no trifle and wouldn't allow for that early a return to training, much less the arena.

Just as soon as she dismisses the idea, she spots him.

Regina's heart stutters on a gasp, then drums wildly against her chest.

It is truly Robin, without a doubt, sparring with a wooden sword he's barely strong enough to wield. She recognises that face, now twisted in a grimace that is hard to read but distinctly unpleasant, even recognises his voice when he yelps in agony as his adversary's sword, merciless, prods him in the side, right in the wound that renders him much too easy a prey.

"Remove him!"

The words could have been her own, but Regina is still dumbstruck by sheer shock, and the voice issuing the order belongs to another.

Two men prop Robin up as they help him—drag him—into the barracks.

Regina spins around only to see Hades' retreating back, and follows him into the house with Zelena trailing behind them both.

"How dare you—?"

But her angry—frightened, so frightened—tirade is nipped in the bud by Hades' indulgent sneer.

"Daring is essential in this line of business," he cuts in.

"He's injured!" Regina spits. "He needs treatment and time to heal, to grow strong again before you toss him back into the arena!"

"He hasn't yet earned the right to weeks of idling. Besides," Hades adds, an oily smile stretching his mouth, "I never gave order for him to return. The man asked himself. It would almost seem even a thief can have honour."

Regina's nostrils flare. The vein in her forehead is pulsing angrily, she can feel it throbbing, threatening to burst. Hades meets the sparks flying from her eyes unflinchingly, cold and amused— a silent declaration of war if there ever was one.

"There's food and wine in the triclinium," Zelena deflects, her cheery tone hardly covering her irritation at having to constantly mediate between her sister and her husband. "Let's give Regina a chance to retire to her bedroom and recover from the long journey."

Zelena takes Hades' arm and nudges him towards the stairs with a flirtatious smile and a hint of promise that would make Regina nauseous if it didn't actually play right into her cards.

Regina's plan may involve a bedroom of sorts—but not the kind designated for house guests, and certainly not an abundance of sleeping.

* * *

It was all for nothing, all his efforts and pain in vain.

He'd taken Hades' ultimatum to heart, and instead of retiring to the fringe of the training grounds as he had done since that damnable first appearance in the arena, Robin went that morning to pick up a weapon for practice. The wooden gladius, twice as heavy as its regular counterpart, had never weighed so heavy upon him before. Every laborious movement of his arm would have ripped, unhealed muscles contracting in response, and for the first few swings, Robin would clutch at his side as if the mere pressure of his hand could keep the stitches intact. Every charge and every dodge sent spasms of pain to his wound, and Robin would grit his teeth in an effort not to cry out. His sparring partners spared him not in the least—had they had any such inclination, they wouldn't have been allowed to show lenience anyway. Robin was managing quite well despite all this, despite the cold beads of sweat trickling down his face in the scorching heat and the disturbing black spots that would now and again hinder his vision. And then—agony, pure and debilitating.

The last thing Robin saw was the tip of Little John's sword dyed crimson with his blood, and next thing he knew, he was being deposited on the sickbed of the infirmary cell.

Robin fumbles with the shabby bandages, used and washed to excess, and works to stem the flow of fresh blood now oozing from his reopened wound. Once again, he's left to his own devices—no medicus and no medicine to help. Not even a drop of wine to pour into the gaping gash, nor a piece of iron to heat over the flickering flames and press against it. It will require nothing short of a miracle for his wound not to fester and flood his blood with renewed fever.

Well accustomed by now to aches and sores, Robin's eyes may swim with tears of pain, but his mind is occupied by other concerns, his heart brimming with darker impulses. At his ruthless master's behest, he'd launched himself into a fierce effort to claim a place among the best gladiators, but it was too much too soon, and now he's even further from his goal than before, treated once again to solitary confinement instead of medical care.

Freedom seems a faraway fantasy now, less real than the mirages that had once plagued him and his brothers in arms in the deserts of Africa. A dream entirely impossible when even saving his skin seems beyond his control. He's done all he possibly can with what meagre means he has at hand, and the rest, he realises with a touch of desperation and dismay, is in the hands of the Fates.

A click of the lock and a creak of the door rouse him from a restless slumber. The hour is late, if the entirely cold ashes in the fireplace are any indication, and Robin has no more reason to expect visitors at nighttime than he has in the light of day. A presence lingers by the door and doesn't lock it—not that Robin could reasonably escape in his present state, or that such a thing would do him much good overall. Light steps approach. Robin's spine straightens as he pushes himself up on the bed, stiff muscles revolting furiously against his efforts to sit, much less stand.

"Lie down," says a low voice, firm but warm. A voice he recognises at once.

He breathes her name—even though he shouldn't really, nothing but a deferential title having any business whatsoever crossing the lips of a slave—and sinks back down onto the blanket with not a sliver of resistance left in him.

And how is she even here?

"Are you—real?" he whispers as she stands over him in what appears to his sleep- and fever-addled mind a light nightdress, with her long hair tumbling freely down her shoulders and to her waist.

"As real as you are," Regina returns—softly, so softly, her voice just as soft as her fingers when she begins to unravel the filthy bandages he wrapped around the burning area in a shoddy attempt at treatment. "Stay still," she instructs, and: "This is going to hurt."

And gods, does it ever. It burns, burns like wildfire in his side, radiates all the way to his chest, knocking the breath out of him as she pours and pours generous amounts of whatever the blasted liquid is over the throbbing wound. Robin is hissing and cursing, couldn't help it if he tried, but he fights the instinct to move his limbs, remains mostly still as she requested of him.

It takes ages, but the burn is replaced eventually by a sting, which in turn gives way to a dull numbness.

An orange glow pushes against the lids of his tightly shut eyes, and Robin chances a glance sideways.

Regina is hovering over the now crackling fire, holding over it a thin, long object with a pointy end.

He braces himself, prays that she hurry before he regains all feeling in his side. As if on cue, she turns and reappears by his side again, needle and thread in one hand, and a piece of wood for him to bite on in the other—and oh but what a fool he is to have doubted her. She knows what she's doing, Regina, has demonstrated her skill as healer on him before.

Neither speaks as she works away at the deep cut with sure hands, nimble fingers stitching his flesh together for the second time. His skin tingles where hers brushes it, an odd sort of sensation he knows not what to make of. Not quite pleasant, but not quite pain either.

"You'll be on bedrest for the week," Regina states flatly once she's finished. "You can start exercising after to slowly regain strength, but nothing outrageous or terribly taxing. Certainly no weight-lifting for a while. And no fighting."

"I've got to," he huffs with perhaps an undue amount of injured pride at the insinuation that he's somehow not aware of what's wise or sustainable in his condition. He wants to say more, wants to keep them talking, so he swallows and grates through a desperately arid throat: "I've no interest in being relegated to the mines to die a miserable wretch."

The only answer comes in the form of a skein filled with a blessedly balanced blend of watered-down wine and something else he doesn't recognise. Healing herbs of some kind, surely. He gulps and gulps mouthfuls of it, draining the skein of every last drop. Gods, but he was thirsty, parched after he'd used his humble water ration to somewhat clean the raw cut.

The cut that is no more, replaced again by a neat row of stitches.

"Is that what he threatened you with? The mines?"

"It's what they threaten us all with. They had us watch those dwarfs be dragged away in chains, the last of them dead because he'd dared defy such an end. And just in case I hadn't caught on, Hades made it clear in no uncertain terms that I would follow if I didn't deliver—and soon. Tossed into the arena for a certain death in my condition, or flung into the mines for much the same. I won't let that be my fate."

"No," Regina breathes on a sharp exhale, "neither will I."

A foul stench fills the already dank, noxious cell as she lifts the lid of a square container.

"You've gone to all this trouble," Robin grins weakly, wrinkling his nose at the godawful smell, "only to smother me now?"

Regina cocks an eyebrow at him, taken aback by the unexpected introduction of humour into the bleak situation, but by no means opposed to it if the quirk of her lips is to be believed.

"Delicate, aren't we?" she teases back as she slathers a generous amount of the smelly salve over the tender spot.

"Clearly," he groans at the cool sensation.

Her face is scrunched up in concentration, the dark veil of her hair partially hiding it from sight. Still he catches the way her brow creases with his sharp intake of breath as she scrapes a nail over sensitive skin, catches the flicker of guilt in her dark eyes as she mutters an apology he's quick to dismiss. How could he hold such a trifle against her when all she's done is go out of her way to aid him?

"I'll leave the rest with you. Apply it every night." She places the lid back, then picks up the bottle next to it for him to see. "You must take a spoonful of this every morning. It tastes quite horrible without the wine and water, but it'll help. A spoonful every morning—no more, no less. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

It's meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but that's not what she hears—at least not at first. There are others who use the moniker, people who mean to mock and wound, and they must succeed to some extent, for Regina winces. And no, by the gods, that was never his intention, he should have known better. The apology doesn't make it past the tip of his tongue as she sets about to make the final touches, having dressed his wound in clean strips of linen so deftly he barely noticed when it happened.

"I prefer Regina," she says simply. Not angry, but distant.

"Thank you, Regina." He's not sure what possesses him to grab her hand; he only knows he hates the idea of all that space between them, and his heart is so very full of feeling. And she doesn't withdraw the hand now clutched in his, only lets her gaze flicker between his face and their joined fingers as he professes: "I am forever in your debt."

Their eyes lock then, hers boring into his with unforeseen intensity. Robin watches her eagerly, watches her cheeks growing pinker, the corners of her mouth tipping up slightly. It suits her. And yet, as much as he wants to stay in this moment, singularly peaceful yet charged with something… _more_ , another fierce longing long brewing takes over in his heart.

"And yet you're about to ask another favour."

Robin blinks at her words, prophetic as they seem, only to realise in the very next moment that it takes no Sybil to guess his wish. Not between parents anyway.

"My boy," he voices the plea they both understand all too clearly anyway.

The looks she gives him is full of compassion.

"He's here. I brought Roland with me."

Robin's chest constricts with longing, then expands with sheer love.

"When can I—?"

"Robin," she sighs, shaking her head slightly, and his stomach drops. "I can't make any promises. It's hard enough for me to sneak in here in the dead of night without getting caught. Bringing a toddler along would be beyond reckless."

A lick of shame joins the bubbling desperation—he never once considered how great a risk she's running for him, for them, by coming here. His only excuse remains his son. Regina has a boy, too, so he only hopes she can find it in her heart to understand. And not refuse him.

"I can't promise you," she repeats, her next words, however, propelling Robin's heart towards hope again, "but I will try to make it happen. He misses you, you know. I have one condition though," she adds, her jaw set and eyes hard all of a sudden. "This," she makes a sweeping gesture that Robin understands to mean more than his injury—his sentence, Hades, the miseries of the ludus and the dangers of the arena, as well as the separation from the one person dearest to him, "is not going to stop you."

No, he thinks, he mustn't let this get to him. He mustn't let them break his spirit. He's cheated death countless times now, lived through vicious wars and tedious campaigns, survived his own execution, and defied the odds in the bloodbath of the arena.

Robin won't be daunted in his quest for a brighter future.

And he tells her just that, looks into those dark, bottomless eyes, his own look no less sincere than hers, and vows:

"This is not going to stop me."

* * *

 ** _Thumbs up? Thumbs down?_** _ **This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Ave, patient and resilient reader! Welcome back to the story after a couple months' dry spell. Thank you all for sticking around, thank you for favoriting, following, and especially reviewing.**_

 _ **This chapter is dedicated to the biggest cheerleader this story has and birthday girl, Bea aka Verkaiking - happy birthday! :)  
**_

 _ **And to all, happy reading!**_

* * *

Roland wants to watch, and she cannot let him.

For days he's begged Regina to allow him on the balcony while the gladiators practice, to catch a glimpse of his Papa if not talk to him. For days she's resisted, coaxed and cajoled and soothed tearful tantrums she couldn't really hold against the little boy kept away from the only parent he's ever known, the very centre of Roland's universe. The meeting she'd promised Robin to strive for has yet to happen, and she can barely look him in the eye whenever he chances to squint up at her against the sunlit sky. She's running out of stories to distract Roland with when he wakes up in the dead of night from a terrible nightmare in which he's ripped away from his father forever, chokes on her own sobs as she rubs a palm across the child's back to calm his.

She's in his bedroom again, curled up in bed with Roland and the toy monkey he favours, and nothing she says or does seems to help the _missing_ his Papa tonight.

"Can I watch, R'gina? Tomorrow?" he sniffs into her nightdress. "Please?"

It's a terrible idea. She should say no, she knows she should. Not only is it a sight entirely inappropriate for a child his age but it's also dangerous. Robin hasn't seen his son in weeks, and the shock of it, the happiness of it should he spot him leaning and peeking over the railing, would surely drive him to distraction—a state most unfortunate in the middle of a fight, right under the nose of opponents and master alike.

But Hades is going to be away on business for the entirety of the morning, and Roland's sad little pout has been haunting Regina ever since they arrived. The darling boy's so close to his Papa, yet so far away. And Cora is right—Regina is weak, her heart too soft for her own good, and theirs.

"Yes," she whispers into Roland's ear, gives him a watery smile when he looks up at her wide-eyed.

"Really?" he whispers back with all the gracelessness of a four-year-old, and she chuckles despite herself.

"Really," she nods, and the way Roland is suddenly all deep dimples and laughing eyes as he cuddles against her side and finally, blessedly, goes back to sleep, is almost enough to quiet the incessant little voice of caution nagging at her.

###

With morning comes harsh reality, and Regina's insides twist and squirm as she navigates two boisterous boys through breakfast (she can't eat a morsel herself), then hurries after them as Henry and Roland race each other up the stairs. She needn't have worried about them bursting onto the balcony unguarded though, because they both stop on the threshold, Henry teetering in the doorway, Roland bouncing on the balls of his feet and imploring her to _hurry up, R'gina, Papa's waiting!_

In truth, he isn't. Robin doesn't know to expect this surprise, for she never had a chance to prepare him for it. She'd resolved to do just that the night before, to forewarn him lest the shock lead to another grave injury—even though she's not sure the anticipation wouldn't have led to much the same result. Not that it makes any difference now that Zelena has thwarted her plans by having the whole household on their feet and in the way, cooking and cleaning and decorating for the extravagant feast planned for tonight. So no, Robin isn't in the least bit prepared for this. And frankly, neither is Regina, but it's too late to change her mind now. She can't possibly break Roland's little heart with yet another refusal.

"Come on, then," she beckons with a forced smile.

Roland takes her hand obediently as Regina slips an arm around Henry's shoulders, and they step out into the rattle of swords.

Regina's eyes scour the training grounds, searching with practised efficiency now. Unlike Roland, who's not been privy to these trainings before, Regina has spent many an hour on the balcony, watching, worrying. Scrutinising Robin's every move, she'd seek signs of improvement, proof of the effects of the tonic she'd instructed him to take and the poultice she'd mixed for him to apply, and watched him regain a bit of strength and agility every day. So she's become well-versed in, well, Robin; has developed a good eye for spotting his sandy hair among the dozens of heads underneath, can even recognise him—she blushes as she realises this—by his well-toned arms, his strong legs, by the very way he moves. She spots him easily in the corner of the grounds, hacking at the training pole with a sword in each hand. Regina raises a brow—that's new, he's not supposed to wield two swo—

"I can't see anything!" cries Roland, tugging at her hand.

Regina smiles faintly—he's too small to see over the railing, the gaps in the latticework too narrow to offer much in terms of a view—and hoists the child into her arms.

"Remember our deal, Roland?" she reminds hims softly as she settles him on her hip.

"No shouting," Roland parrots with a mighty nod, his neck stuck out and head turning in every which direction, but the goings-on beneath are still shielded from his eyes by Regina's carefully placed hand.

"That's right, well done," she praises. "Papa's working," she forces the word through the bile rising in her throat—what an odious turn of phrase considering circumstances. "We wouldn't want to interrupt."

Roland must be used to keeping quiet while watching his father's heists from a safe hiding spot because he accepted her rule readily the first time she brought it up. He's fidgeting now though, and his next question comes out slightly whiny.

"But where is he, R'gina?"

It's Henry who answers before Regina has the chance to, pointing Robin out to Roland: "Right there by the palus, see?"

And Roland does see, must do because he leans forward, his little body gravitating towards Robin. Regina suddenly has a hard time holding him properly and takes a step back just to be a safe distance away from the perilous depth beyond the railing. A strangled cry escapes Roland, turns into an awed gasp halfway through the heart-wrenching _Papa!_ he just can't quite hold back. Tears prickle in Regina's eyes, and although her anxiety hardly dissolves, her doubts about whether or not this was the right thing to do certainly melt away. Henry presses closer and wraps his arms around Regina as if he never wanted to let go of her again. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she's no free hand to wipe it away. Thankfully, there are no prying eyes to see and judge.

There is, however, a set of eyes staring at them—brilliantly blue and wide with wonder.

###

Robin's heart is pounding faster than his double swords ever could as he squints incredulously upwards. His arms drop to his sides, his jaw drops, too—he's looking at his boy for the first time in what may only have been weeks but certainly feels like an eternity. Somehow he's enough presence of mind not to cry out Roland's name or sprint towards the balcony. Instead, he simply stands there, rooted to the spot, as his chest threatens to explode with happiness and ache. So close, yet still out of reach.

Roland has grown so much, Robin thinks, though objectively he's aware it's nigh impossible to tell with his boy being held in Regina's arms. He's reaching towards him, his son, and Robin's heart clenches as Regina struggles for a moment to shift his weight, relaxes again when she secures him in her hold and retreats a step for good measure. She whispers something in Roland's ear, and his boy grins and gives Robin an enthusiastic wave. A strangled chuckle breaks out of him as he waves back, the gladius still clutched in his hand an unwelcome hindrance.

One crack of the whip is all it takes to end the short-lived moment.

Before Robin could do something incredibly foolish, such as blatantly ignore the command as he has every intention to do, Regina turns around and disappears in the villa with a very unhappy Roland thrashing wildly in her arms as he's carried inside and away from his Papa again.

* * *

The reprieve announced by the whip a bare half hour later is unexpected but most welcome.

Robin's head is not in the fighting, cannot be anywhere but where his heart is, and that's somewhere in the depths of the villa right now, where Regina is undoubtedly busy comforting a distraught Roland. He can barely believe he finally got to see his boy, if only for a few much too short moments. Doubtless she'd had a hard time setting up a meeting for them, otherwise he's sure Regina would not have resorted to such desperate measures. He's concerned about Roland, yes, it tears him apart that his boy's upset over their renewed separation—but there's no denying, if he's honest with himself, that Robin is also incredibly, selfishly happy.

His son is alive and thriving, his belly full and a roof over his head, a warm bed at night and a guardian to watch over him—and that's more than Robin could have wished for when he'd stood on the brink of death. And he misses his father just like Robin misses him—a thought that gives him equal parts joy and sorrow.

Robin hears nothing of the orders delivered to the assembled gladiators, but follows the rest blindly as they disperse and finds himself, puzzled, in the barracks way ahead of the usual hour.

"What's going on?" he asks no one in particular—and receives no answer whatsoever.

But he's in no mood to be dismissed, ignored or mocked. He grabs Alan by the shoulder and demands an explanation, which Alan provides with a frown and a look of betrayal—Robin's one of the precious few who've never bullied him, so Robin suspects the rough treatment must sting especially. He relaxes his grip and tries to school his face into a friendlier expression as Alan explains there is to be a a grand party tonight, and a select few gladiators handpicked by domina are to make an appearance. Not as guests of course, but as entertainment.

Still, Robin wonders if Regina will attend. Roland certainly won't, she wouldn't expose him or her son to such sights at this tender age. Roman parties are rarely demure, and Robin's been in Capua long enough to know this particular house has quite the reputation for hosting lavish affairs long talked about. Zelena likes flash; Hades likes— Well, Hades isn't the epitome of outgoing, but his affection for his wife at least seems genuine, and so he humours her—and shows the world he's the means to do so. Regina, though…Robin isn't sure. It dawns on him how little he actually knows about her. Sure, he knows she's bold and generous and resilient, can tell she cares deeply and loves fiercely; but he doesn't know the small, everyday things such as her favourite dish or, well, whether or not she enjoys parties. Rumour has it she's cool and haughty, armed at all times with a sharp tongue she's not afraid to use—that's how she came by the Evil Queen moniker. Perhaps she just prefers solitude to social gatherings. An odd pang of disappointment stirs in him, out of place though it may be. He'd have liked to see her. Not that the choice is his to make anyway.

Zelena makes that choice for them all, although contrary to expectation, she doesn't turn up in person to inspect them but merely sends word of her decision.

Completely flabbergasted, Robin listens to his name being called out along with that of John, Guy, August, Walsh, and—no less surprisingly—Alan.

Well, he ponders incredulously as he's rationed extra water to wash and oil to slather over his body, it seems he has a party to attend tonight.

###

"Is my presence really necessary?" Regina grouses as a heady cloud of perfume envelops her.

Zelena scoffs and pours more heavily scented oil into her palm.

"Regina, the party is in your honour. It's your welcome party, remember?"

"I've been in Capua almost two weeks now, Zelena," Regina rolls her eyes, for who does her sister think she's fooling? "Just admit you'll take any excuse to throw a big, fancy event."

"So what if I enjoy it?" shrugs Zelena wholly unapologetically. "You should try it sometime."

"I do not run from Rome to have to pretend I like people I despise here, too."

Regina winces at her own choice of words—never would she have dreamed of admitting so freely to _running away_ , even though she knows deep down inside that her frequent stays in Capua are as close as it gets to flight. Luckily, Zelena chooses to let it slide this time, seems oblivious even to Regina's slip of tongue. Her deep-seated loathing of social gatherings is old news to Zelena, and the latter turns her half-painted face to Regina with a smug, self-satisfied little grin.

"There will be at least one person there you don't despise," she announces pompously, ever so pleased with herself.

 _I very much doubt that_ , Regina itches to return but settles instead on a sardonic: "And who might that be?"

"Oh, just some thief you rescued."

"What?" Regina's world spins, gold pins clattering to the table she's seated at. Surely Zelena hasn't—she wouldn't have planned for _that_ kind of entertainment—would she? "You—what have you done to Robin?"

Zelena snatches the mirror from Regina's hand to assess the complex monster of a hairstyle currently sitting atop her head, pulling at the hairnet to adjust a lock here and there. Regina can tell she's offended but hardly cares—it should be Zelena, not her, to offer apologies.

"I've done nothing," Zelena sulks at long last as she twirls a red lock into place with a dab of gel on her fingers, "other than have him brought there so that you can no doubt enquire about his health the first chance you get."

But Regina is in no mood for any of this—for teasing, or guilt-trips, or parties. Where she was merely moderately anxious before, now she is positively terrified. Her hands tremble as she picks up the largest hairpin and grips, letting the intricately shaped apple ornament cut into the pads of her fingers, into the softness of her palm.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hisses in an effort to mask the quiver in her voice. "You know perfectly well that all these fine and esteemed people are going to turn into uninhibited beasts if you keep the wine flowing long enough—and it _will_ flow, it will flow all night long and you know it—and the things they're capable of sober are nothing compared to their atrocious behaviour in a liquor-induced stupor!"

"Oh please, Regina, don't be such a prude. You don't have to stay for the orgies if you don't want to."

It's as if a bucket of ice had just been dumped into Regina's stomach. She closes her eyes, presses jittery fingers against her temples, and wills herself to just—

 _Breathe._

"Don't," she whispers. "Don't even joke about that."

That was a low blow, even from Zelena. Especially since it's by no means unheard of for such parties—and not only the most decadent ones either—as this to turn into a celebration of each and every carnal pleasure available to man. (Granted, Rome's reputation for debauchery is much too exaggerated, a host of back rooms serviced by prostitutes scandal-worthy rather than business as usual, but you never know with Zelena what new outrage she will next choose for the sheer pleasure of mocking societal norms.) So the very thought of that eventuality makes Regina's stomach turn, and her sister should know better than to make light of the matter. Even if Zelena doesn't mean it—she doesn't, truly, but that's precious little consolation right now.

They sit like that for a while, wordlessly stewing in their own unique misery, neither talking nor looking the other's way.

"You know what, Regina," Zelena finally breaks the charged silence in an utterly resigned tone, "just do me a favour and show up for a spell. Meet your thief, pretend for a moment not to hate everyone else's guts, then complain of a headache like you always do, and you might even manage to get away in time for a bedtime story."

And that is precisely what Regina intends to do.

Only she should know by now that when it comes to her life, things rarely go as planned.

* * *

The evening starts out every bit as denigrating as the darker half of Robin's mind imagined in the short hours preceding it.

They're marched into the villa teeming with guests, the air thick with heavy perfumes and the savoury smell of choice dishes, and put on display for said guests' enjoyment. Within mere minutes, appraising looks turn into impudent touches, the guests by no means shying away from inspecting the gladiators' well-built, battle-hardened bodies with probing hands. It's not unusual. It's not considered in any way inappropriate—slaves are property, not people in their own right. It isn't even scandalous for a Roman matron, that paragon of virtue (in theory at the very least), to run spindly fingers down bare arms and chests. And they do, one after the other, as Robin stares ahead with an impassive face and tries to will his flesh not to crawl. He fails, but the rising goosebumps seem to bother no one. Perhaps they mistake the signs of his revulsion for something else. Or—and that is more likely by far— they simply don't care.

So Robin focuses his thoughts on something good and bright and pure, and returns in his mind to the moment his eye caught the flash of carmine on the balcony mid-swing that morning, and found himself upon second glance eye to eye first with Regina, and then with Roland perched in her arms.

Gods, how he'd missed his boy. How he misses him still.

If only he could hold him to his chest again, ruffle that rebellious hair, have those dimples laugh back at him in the carefree happiness of a child. How he hopes for Roland to retain that for a long time yet—how he hopes that under Regina's wings, he actually might, despite circumstances.

Perhaps if tonight goes well, Robin will petition Hades for a short meeting with his son. Yes, that's just what he might do. His chances are slim, he's well aware, but well worth the risk should his wish be granted.

Nails dig into his bicep then, cutting through his reverie, and Robin's eyes snap up in time to catch the saucy wink the wrinkled, extravagantly bejewelled woman throws his way before she's ushered away by a girl with a small crown branded on her shoulder. Robin's incredulous gaze follows them unawares, across the table covered in mounds and mounds of meat and turrets of sweets—

Right to Regina.

She's not looking at him, and she's doing it in a way that makes him certain she's very deliberately _not looking_ at him. Instead, she engages the walking jewellery box in conversation her tense stance suggests she's the furthest thing from enjoying. The girl hovers nearby, presses a peacock fan into Regina's hand in response to some familiar little gesture Robin doesn't even catch. Her handmaiden, she must be, one he suspects Regina sent to summon the flamboyant flirt and relieve Robin of her attentions.

More food is brought in on silver platters, oysters and lobster and suckling pig, and the guests recline in twos and threes on the many dining couches, providing the gladiators with some reprieve at last.

###

Regina hates to mingle.

Avoiding people, on the other hand, making herself invisible in a room bursting with them—that she's a true master at. The trick is to steer clear of the food and drink. The tables heaving under slabs of meat and baskets of fruit, with vegetables and desserts arranged cleverly to form ingenious patterns, will always attract a crowd. So Regina stays far away from them, her stomach rumbling soon enough yet at the same time too jittery with nerves for food of any kind.

She's aware that her status—and some semblance of freedom within the confines of her golden cage absent Leopold—comes with certain responsibilities, including social ones, and so she's already suffered through dozens of introductions and plenty of small talk to last her a fortnight, but right now she wants to take a moment to just— _breathe._

And look around. For him. For Robin.

Her eyes find him a whole room's width away, talking now instead of being groped, and good, that's good, so much better than the perilous humiliation of before. He's talking to Glinda, one of Zelena's—admittedly numerous—frenemies. A harmless woman for the most part, or at least caught up enough on her own notion of moral superiority that she poses very little threat to either Robin or Regina for that matter.

Not so the pair currently pushing their way over to them. The very opposite of sugary Glinda, Cruella and Ursula are every bit a menace. Rome is constantly abuzz with gossip concerning the nature of their relationship, their respective marriages doing very little to quell such rumours. In fact, the existence of wealthy, indulgent husbands only seems to add fuel to the fire, inspiring even juicier tales. Regina doesn't set much store by idle gossip, nor does she find their arrangement as outrageous as custom would have it; but she does, unfortunately, have first-hand experience with the pair's mean streak.

Never one to refuse a drink, Cruella has already managed to consume quite the amount of wine—as many cups as Fortune would have her toss back upon a throw of the dice. Even diluted, an excessive amount like that usually imbibed during drinking games is prone to have its effect. With Cruella, the result is an utter loss of inhibition. Still, emboldened by liquor though Cruella might be, it's Ursula who gets handsy first, the arm slung around Cruella's waist shifting most unsubtly even as Regina stares daggers at them trying to entrap Robin in an alcove. Glinda watches with utter horror as her innocent conversation threatens to spiral out of control, eyes flitting, searching the crowd for the hostess, begging for help.

But Zelena is busy elsewhere, and so Regina walks briskly over to them, grabbing a goblet of wine on the way solely for something to hold on to. Gripping the silver goblet till her knuckles are white is the only thing currently keeping her from wringing Cruella's neck as she catches her slurred words.

"This dull brown is not the best colour on you, darling. Perhaps a grey would be more suitable—to bring out your…eyes."

Since Robin's not wearing much at the moment, it is more than clear even without the pointed downward look that Cruella's referring to the belted loincloth.

"Look who the cat dragged in," Regina drawls lowly.

Cruella is apparently too drunk to fully appreciate the dangerous tone, but Ursula's eyes flash with something akin to fear. Good. Regina's reputation among the nobility of a hot-tempered, hard-hearted woman serves its purpose at times like this. What started out as mockery, Regina's taken and molded carefully into a tool, and a mention of the Evil Queen rarely inspires laughter nowadays. Hate the moniker though she does, she's learnt to reap its benefits, wearing the Queen like both armour and weapon against enemies. It doesn't render her invulnerable, but at least her weaknesses are no longer in plain sight. And she can inflict a wound that runs deep if she so chooses.

"Regina," Ursula greets in a would-be-cheerful tone, her smile much too strained. "We were just getting acquainted with your thief."

Regina shifts uneasily at that, her free hand landing on her stomach. _Your_ _thief_. Hers. Why does everyone insist on calling him that? And more importantly, was that insidious undertone truly suggestive of what she thinks it was? It should hardly surprise her that there is talk. The story of Robin's capture and Regina's intervention is far from common knowledge, neither party wanting it to become so, but she supposes it was inevitable that scraps of it would leak and give rise to speculation. Especially since Regina still associates with him—never mind that it's her sister she's technically visiting with. Taking a deep breath as inconspicuously as possible, she decides to let the snide comment slide—any hint of defensiveness on her part would only be taken as confirmation of the unspoken accusation that there's something illicit happening between Regina and Robin.

"Yes, I can see that. You might want to acquaint yourselves with the others as well. The fighting will begin soon, and your contenders are just over there," she points out John and Guy. Thank the gods Robin is at least exempt from this part of the night's entertainment. The spectacle will instead be provided by the reigning champion and the sly contender for said title. "You wouldn't want to miss it."

"Oh, I'm perfectly happy here with—" begins Cruella, but Ursula gives Regina a curt nod, both of their smiles equally strained, and steers Cruella towards the courtyard, into which the rest of the room has begun to trickle.

That's when their eyes meet for the first time that night, and Robin seems barely able to look at Regina. He looks—beaten. More so than any physical injury could make him, and Regina aches for him. She understands only too well. There isn't much to say, or perhaps there is—it doesn't really matter, for they're not alone.

"Can you believe that Cruella woman?" Glinda gasps next to them in a scandalised whisper. "Had we not put an end to it, I don't know what would have—"

Thankfully, blessedly, the music dies down then, and Hades beckons the lingering guests into the columned courtyard. Robin excuses himself and joins the other gladiators, and Regina exits into the starry night, weaving between guests until she finds a sheltered column to lean against. The view is absolutely atrocious from here, but she's not terribly interested in gladiatorial games, so she doesn't mind in the least that she will see nothing of the match. She toys with the idea of withdrawing upstairs, slipping into the boys' bedroom to check on them before retiring to her own, but something is keeping her where she is, not in the throng of the crowd but lingering on the fringe. This is not the arena, where gladiators can lift a sword to fight for themselves. Slaves don't get to fight for themselves against free men, and so she's been doing that for Robin tonight as best she can. She'll see this banquet to the end—or at least see him gone safely back to the barracks.

Regina is lost in thought by the time the fight starts, quite oblivious to the cheering and jeering of the guests. The knots in her stomach start slowly untwisting as she realises the evening's coming to an end soon. Hades, for all his faults, does not encourage drunken revelry and frolicking with slaves into the morning hours, prefers instead to brood over the remnants of the feast with a handful of fearful clients so as not to have to rise early for them the following day.

They've almost made it through. They're almost safe.

Almost.

"Greetings, Regina."

The voice sends instant shivers down her spine. A dreadful sense of doom comes rushing at her, and she closes her eyes to it briefly. What business does _he_ have here? With her?

Regina's fingers claw the cool marble before she shifts her weight off of the column and turns to face the unwelcome intruder with a facade of haughty calm she can only hope he won't notice is ever so close to crumbling.

"Good evening, George. I did not expect to see you so far from Rome."

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't." George stands rigid between two columns, his silhouette as stern as the sharp angles of the portico. "I have business to attend to. As you know, my cases often stretch beyond Rome—even as far as lovely Capua."

"I trust you're enjoying your stay," Regina returns, but she isn't fooled. Capua would be far more lovely with a spell of rain at last after what seems an eternity of drought, and the reason George is in this particular house on this particular evening has nothing to do with any current legal matters he may be busy with. A past matter seems a more likely candidate, which is precisely the reason for the subtle tremble in Regina's voice she hopes George will miss or otherwise chalk up to the non-existent evening chill and her lack of cloak.

"It's been a bit boring, I'm afraid," he says dryly, and Regina swallows—usually Regina's regal manner sets them on equal footing at least if not grant her the advantage, but tonight he's brimming with cool confidence. "But I think I know the answer to that problem."

He turns from her then, the beginnings of a sneer on his pursed lips, and pretends to be engrossed in the match they both know perfectly well he can't see from this vantage point.

As if on cue, a tumultuous cheer goes up in the audience, and the fight must be over, Little John victorious once again judging by the triumphant roar that Regina still has presence of mind enough to worry will rouse the children. Hades is speaking, words of empty praise and boasts that carry little meaning. George's threat hangs over Regina like a storm cloud ready to burst, though what will spill forth remains a mystery. She doesn't know what to brace herself for, and that only multiplies the weight of the daunting menace.

"—another, even more spectacular show tomorrow!"

Regina's head snaps up at Hades' voice, and now she's listening intently. There is a spectacle scheduled, of course, everybody knows, it's been advertised all over town, and Hades has bragged about his involvement for days now, so of course she knows this. So does everyone else, so why is Hades making such a show of an announcement that is news to none? Unless—

"As you all know, the legendary John Lackland will take to the arena tomorrow and face the champion of Capua. Our champion, Little John, however, won't be challenging the unbested Lackland alone." An excited whisper ripples through the crowd. Regina's stomach coils with foreboding. "Alongside him, at the behest of an esteemed guest, will stand one of his new brothers, Robin Hood, eager to prove himself worthy of representing this house."

Tomorrow. The match is tomorrow, and Robin is to fight in it. It is too soon, much too soon for this. He's not ready. She's not ready. Can something be done? Perhaps Zelena could change Hades' mind—but—

It dawns on her then.

George.

This is all his doing, and he's much too influential for Hades to refuse. No, this is happening, and Regina can do absolutely nothing to stop it.

George is watching her now, the height of cold malice and self-satisfaction as Regina tries not to bunch the fabric of her stola nervously with her arms wrapped around her torso. Before she can pull herself properly together, his detestable voice is in her ear again.

"That should shake things up, I think. I will see you at the games tomorrow. I bid you good night, Regina," he says with an oily smile that suggests he's well aware of her plight, though not perhaps the depth of it. "And may Fortuna favour your thief."

* * *

 ** _Thumbs up? Thumbs down?_** _ **This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Previously on B &G: Regina took pity on Roland and allowed him a peek at his Papa_, _Robin came out of Zelena's party unscathed but with the prospect of another battle to fight - and this bard once again took ages to bring you the next installment of their story... :)_**

 ** _Happy reading!_**

* * *

All of a sudden Robin finds himself with his life on the line once again, and how could things have gone so wrong so fast?

He's hardly aware of the jostling and teasing of his cellmates as they're herded back to the barracks. Leaving the curious questions of the non-attending men for the others to answer, Robin scampers into a far corner to collect his wits. Oblivious to Little John's testy glare as he is to Alan's pitying look and Guy's jealous rage, he sits with his head in his hands, palms pressing against throbbing temples and itchy eyes.

Is this Hades' doing? Is he sending Robin to his death, true to his threat? Robin wouldn't put it past him at all. Yet fighting in the prestigious primus is considered an honour, a goal much striven for by lanistas and gladiators alike. Half of the barracks would kill to be in his place. The other half would rather be killed on the spot, of course. For the man Robin and Little John are about to face is not a mere mortal—he's a legend. A sleazy, cunning foe, infamous for his dirty tricks. His style is equal measures scorned and admired by the crowds. That he's yet to be vanquished is an undeniable fact, however, his record a string of victories from his beginnings in the arena to present day. There are gladiators more senior than Robin and more skilled in the ludus, ones Hades is much more likely to invest in than him. Robin's failure might bring Hades personal gratification and, admittedly, strengthen some alliances with those hostile to Robin, but to have a gladiator die too easy a death, to fail to give the people a memorable show, casts a shadow of shame and disfavour upon the ludus. Would it be worth it to Hades? Is this personal revenge, regardless of the cost?

Or could this be Robin's chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his despicable master? To advance his standing among the gladiators from lowly fledgling to celebrated victor?

He is not an unskilled fighter. A decade's service in the Roman military has left Robin in good shape, even though the rules of the battlefield vary greatly from those of the arena. The state of his injury still leaves something to be desired as well, but he's improving much faster now that he has the medicine graciously left to him by Regina. He needs a win to improve his position, and with it his chances of survival—and, ultimately, freedom.

Moreover, Robin's not to face the enemy alone. Little John will stand beside him. True, the two of them are still not on the best of terms. John doesn't seem to trust him for some unfathomable reason; or perhaps he simply doesn't consider him worthy of attention. But if they could just overcome their mutual hostility and work together, they would find themselves at a great advantage against John Lackland.

Life has taught Robin to look for a silver lining in every cloud, and that's what he chooses to do now.

With that mindset, he stands and approaches Little John, who's currently chewing on a drumstick the presence of which in this cell Robin cannot account for. He has an air of one utterly unconcerned with anything other than his meal, and that sentiment clearly applies to any impending deathmatches he's soon to participate in. Needless to say, his lack of interest extends to Robin as well.

"A word, if you will," Robin addresses him.

Little John gives him a baleful look, then tears off another chunk of meat with his teeth.

"We fight together tomorrow," Robin presses, undeterred. "We should discuss tactics."

"No allies in the arena, Hood."

Much like Hades did when addressing his guests in the courtyard, Little John opts for the moniker from Robin's thieving days, spat out in a derisive, contemptuous tone. Good. Now Robin knows just where he stands. Not that he intends to stay there for much longer.

"A match of skill then? I'll gladly demonstrate I can be a worthy ally."

"I'd squash you like a fly."

The cell echoes with laughter, fists banging down on every which surface. Yet Little John isn't laughing along, is measuring Robin with a sceptical eye instead. Robin takes this lack of derision as a good sign.

"Maybe," he shrugs. "Maybe not. There are other skills beside raw strength."

"My strength has served me well, Hood. What do you have to match it?"

Robin considers this carefully. He knows what he's good at, brilliant even, but there's not a bow or arrow in sight. His eyes skim the cell looking for inspiration as conversations dull and all eyes are trained on Little John and him. There's a wooden spoon lying abandoned on Little John's cot, and a jug of wine sitting tantalisingly on a shelf behind the bars, out of their reach. He'll be punished for what he resolves with a half-smirk to do—unless of course his cellmates should decide not to rat him out. That's what he hopes for anyway.

Moving with deliberation, Robin slips by the glowering Guy, gripped now by a familiar little thrill chased by a sense of accomplishment. Picking up the spoon and the small object just obtained unbeknownst to anyone, Robin pries the empty cup from Much the Miller's feared fingers and sets it on a carefully selected spot on the floor.

Stepping back, Robin steadies his stance and takes careful aim, paying no mind to the sneers and jeers now rising around him. The small stone is catapulted from the improvised miniature ballista, hits the jug at a precisely calculated angle with just the right force, and ricochets off it just as the jug teeters and tilts, a splash of wine trickling from it right into Much's readied cup. Soft curses and involuntary gasps resound as the jug regains its balance and sits firmly upon the shelf again.

The cell falls silent but for a cluster of swearwords, but Robin doesn't miss the smirks firmly settled on several faces. Much the Miller stands and retrieves his cup, sips the wine, then hollers his approval.

"Damn thief!" shrieks Guy, shoving a piece of cloth into Robin's face. It's the makeshift pouch Robin had covertly emptied before showcasing his prowess with ranged weapons (even ones of questionable quality).

"Me?" Robin bats his eyes innocently. "If I recall correctly—and I'm quite certain I do—you're the one owing Little John money you claimed not to have. Now your debt is paid." Smirking, Robin hands the booty to its rightful owner.

Much the Miller's cup makes rounds in the cell, spoils shared among men who finally view Robin with new-found respect, if still not fully embracing him as their own—not before the first among them does, anyway.

Little John nibbles on the bone some more, then flings it away and wipes greasy hands on his loincloth. Robin bears his stare unflinching, waiting for the verdict.

"Pour me some," booms Little John, handing Robin his cup, "and we can talk."

* * *

Morning comes with rigid regularity, and Regina hasn't slept a wink. Exhaustion hits her the moment the sun hops over the horizon. As the cresting waves of worry laced with anger abate, their place is filled by hollow helplessness. No matter how she twists this, she doesn't have any cards left to play, none that would bring victory. Robin is going to fight in the arena in mere hours, and either emerge victorious, a rising legend, or—

She cannot bear to finish the thought, but just because she refuses to name it doesn't make the threat any less real. If this is Robin's last day on this side, it is only fitting that she should grant the only wish he's ever had of her.

That he should see his son one last time.

She says nothing of her plans to Roland, indeed sits down with him instead to practice his letters as they always do, while at the same time subtly nudging Henry towards the solution of a particularly tough arithmetic problem. Her mind keeps flitting from numbers and letters to more visceral issues, and she cannot refrain from stealing surreptitious glances at the atrium. Hades finally, blessedly, takes his leave what seems an eternity later (it isn't really, the sun is still low on the horizon), and heads to the marketplace on his usual quest for new acquisitions.

With a thumping heart, Regina puts Henry in charge of the boys' studies (he will of course drop his arithmetics as soon as she disappears inside and lose himself in the world of words with Roland), and seeks out Zelena.

"Absolutely not," Zelena refuses her point-blank.

But Regina knows her sister, knows her own stubbornness, too, and so a heated exchange later, Zelena grudgingly agrees to turn a blind eye and marches off to make a social call with Glinda, leaving Regina's way clear.

* * *

Robin paces the room back and forth, never touching the food and wine laid out on the table. They've been pulled out of the cell somewhat unexpectedly, Little John and him, and led into separate rooms in different ends of the villa for a special treat before an important match that Little John has no doubt sunk his teeth in with gusto and cleared off a good portion of already. Yet Robin has no thought of food, not when other musings have taken over.

Why separate the two of them if there isn't more to this than simply wining and dining them?

One daunting possibility appears briefly—a young slave girl with yellow hair, peering through the door sheepishly. Surely they wouldn't offer him a child— though he wouldn't entertain thoughts of engaging in sexual activities with an adult either. Not if they were offered him on a silver platter like some inanimate object. To his relief, the girl disappears again, and Robin's hope flares up anew.

Dare he believe—?

Footsteps echo in the hallway. Robin waits, heart pounding painfully. Seconds later, a bouncy ball of joy bursts into the room and launches itself into Robin's open arms.

Roland's repeated shrieks of _Papa! Papa!_ , shrill and deafening inches from his ear, are the softest music to Robin. He fights the choked sobs wracking his frame as he holds his boy again after months of separation.

Tiny hands clutch at him, and Robin can barely take in the meaning of the rapid flow of Roland's words muffled against his neck. Something about the big house on the hill and his very own bedroom, the pony he's been learning to ride, and how he can now write down his name not only in Latin but Greek letters, too. Would Robin like to see, and can he, Roland, please come watch him at work more often?

Robin lets him prattle away, listening with rapt attention to his son's many adventures colourfully, if perhaps slightly chaotically, detailed to him by a very animated toddler. Robin stares and stares, can't get enough of his boy, his heart lighter than it's been in months at the carefree abandon now radiating from him. He doesn't interrupt, just _ooh_ s and _aah_ s in all the right places to encourage him to continue. Roland's gushing about someone named Foxy, and Robin can only assume it's the aforementioned pony the boy seems to absolutely adore.

"And when will you teach me about arrows again, Papa? I'm forgetting everything," Roland pouts in serious concern. His eyes go wide and his lips pursed as he adds, as if that settled the matter: "And I miss you!"

Robin presses a kiss to Roland's brow, wipes surreptitiously at his own face to remove traces of tears. His heart is bleeding for his boy. It's what he expected, really—him being well taken care of and occupied. But he'd be lying if he didn't know—even horribly, selfishly wish—that Roland would still remember his father and miss him. But now that he's confronted with it in the flesh, it claws and tears at his insides. He's precious little to soothe his child with unless he resorts to lies, and that he will not do.

"I miss you, too, m'boy," he manages hoarsely. "Dreadfully so. But remember, we talked about me being away longer for a bit so that afterwards we could be together all the time?"

Roland nods sagely, if somewhat indignantly. "You were away long, Papa. Forever long! But now I followed you here and we can be together."

Roland's eyes twinkle with glee, and Robin wishes with a mix of rage and sweeping hatred that Jupiter would strike down the sons of bitches forcing him to wipe the pure joy from his son's face.

"You understand it's not just up to Daddy, right?"

Robin made sure as soon as he had the chance—a chance he'd been desperate for, a chance he had gotten by miracle after his execution had been called off and a new sentence pronounced—to explain in terms a child Roland's age could understand that they're apart not because Robin wants them to but out of necessity. He left out the sordid details and the crushing fact that his life didn't even technically belong to him anymore. Such a thing was inconceivable even to him, an adult, much less to a child.

Roland's face, however, doesn't fall as Robin has braced himself for, but lights up instead.

"Don't worry, Papa," Roland assures, patting him on both cheeks and scrunching up his face as his soft palms meet Robin's scratchy stubble. "Regina's gonna help."

For the first time since Roland's sudden appearance, Robin's eyes leave his son's face. They settle instead on Regina's form pressed against the door as though she wished to become one with it, just as her expression shifts from tender affection to mild alarm. Her soft smile falters when their eyes meet.

"I hate to intrude," she excuses, her words an urgent murmur, "but I need to make sure no one happens upon us here, and—"

"Please, Regina, don't apologise," Robin says, quite overwhelmed by gratitude—in that precise moment, Roland rests his head on his shoulder and the familiar baby smell of him pulls at Robin's heartstrings. "Never apologise. You've made me so happy. So incredibly happy."

Something undefinable crosses her features, a bashful, almost startled look, and her cheeks flush with colour.

"I think that's all Roland's doing," she shrugs, her face splitting into the most beautiful of smiles when Roland flashes his dimples at her. "But I'm glad to have helped. I hope you don't mind about yesterday morning," she adds in a low voice as Roland pops a grape into his mouth, then busies himself picking out the seeds with a grimace.

Robin is quite clueless about what she could possibly mean, and he must look it, too, for she adds sheepishly: "He kept asking to see you. I just couldn't deny him any longer."

"Oh," he lets out, and now he understands. Regina must wonder if he's is mad at her for letting Roland watch the fighting. "It's no place for a child," Robin muses, and only realises he's thinking out loud when Regina visibly tenses at his words. "But of course I don't mind," he hastens to make his meaning clear, "under the circumstances. I trust you with him."

And he means it, truly, and the very fact hits him hard.

His mien darkens in line with the thoughts that inevitably swarm his mind.

Roland, content on Robin's lap, is munching on a honey cake. The heat wears the child out even more rapidly than it does adults, and his eyelids are beginning to droop. Robin ruffles his hair, swallowing against the tight knot swelling in his throat. He can't tear his gaze away from his boy even as he addresses his next words to Regina.

"If today the gods don't favour me—if I'm not to see my son ever again or get to raise him—will you?"

His request is met with a soft gasp and then silence only interrupted by Roland's smacking his lips. Robin looks up at her, sees cheeks drained of colour as she visibly swallows. It could be fear, or it could be reluctance. Robin presses his argument further, uncaring of the note of desperation evident in his voice.

"He's no other family, and I can tell how fond of you he is—and as happy as can be. You're his best chance, Regina. Please."

She purses her lips, and for a moment her gaze turns inward, eyes darkening. Robin realises this must be putting her into a precarious position—being a woman in Rome, she can never legally adopt a child, and this sort of decision belongs to the paterfamilias. Her husband would never agree to this, Robin is sure of it. He half-wishes he could withdraw his plea for her sake, but with Roland's best interest at heart, he cannot. So he watches the fight raging inside her play out in her eyes—remarkably expressive, those dark eyes of hers—until, slowly, Regina's features rearrange into a look of stubborn defiance.

"Yes," comes her simple answer. Her voice is even, her stance poised. Only her eyes betray emotion. "If you die, I will raise your son. Under one condition."

"Anything," he breathes, relief washing over him.

Her words are both command and plea.

"Try not to die."

Robin swallows, musters a strained smile.

"That I can promise—and hereby gladly do."

"Good. We should go. You need to get ready."

Still she keeps both her voice and expression carefully controlled, and it reminds Robin of the time she'd tended to his reopened wound. She'd seemed oddly detached then, but Robin had chalked it up to his own pain-addled state. Wrongly so, apparently. Robin doesn't believe for a second that she's suddenly indifferent to his fate—quite the opposite, in fact. Her eyes betray the anguish she's struggling to contain.

But he's no words of comfort other than empty assurances—for her or, worse yet, for his son.

Gently, Robin rouses Roland from his half-slumber and presses him to his chest, whispering hoarsely that he needs to go with Regina now, that Robin will do his best to see him soon.

He may as well have slapped the child (not that he ever has or would) for the uproar that follows.

Roland blinks thrice, rubs the sleep away, and stares at Robin with big, dark eyes. As understanding dawns on him, a look of deep betrayal settles on his face, tipping his mouth downward, skewing his features into a pitiful grimace before he breaks into heart-rending sobs.

Roland was so brave about their separation, so understanding, but the prospect of more of the same just after the briefest of respites seems entirely too much for him now. Robin should soothe him, but it seems there is no amount of soft words or caresses that can stop his crying, and all he can think of is what a complete cad he is and how miserably he's failing his child.

It's Regina who eventually pries Roland's arms from around Robin's neck, shushing him despite the ongoing weeping and muffling his loud protests against her shoulder when Robin painstakingly hands over Roland's thrashing little body. She winces when a swinging foot hits her right in the stomach, but only winds her arms around the boy more firmly. Robin watches his screaming son disappear from sight along with a last flash of Regina's hair.

He's crying himself now, tears burning a path down his glistening cheeks.

Dying, Robin thinks, surely would hurt less than this.

* * *

Robin can't stop himself shaking.

His whole being is aflame with embarrassment as his limbs threaten to give in, and he slumps on the hot ground, shrinking back into the shadows. The roar of the crowd is close now they're nearing the highlight of the games, Little John and he gathered behind bars with a handful of others, observing the goings on in the arena. The clash of metal against metal clangs in his ears, but it's neither the clank of weapons nor the sickening smell of blood on scorched sand that did this to him.

All it took was a single stray ray of sunshine. That's what did it, that damnable speck of gold glinting off some unfortunate man's helmet as he plummeted headfirst to the ground, struck down by a gloating Guy. A memory stirred, something in his subconscious no doubt, and the agony of Robin's first fight in the arena enveloped him, swooping Death baring his teeth at him from that cheerful little sunbeam.

Robin isn't a coward. He doesn't want to die, but it's not fear of death itself tethering him to life. No, this is different. It's beyond his control—flashbacks of battles past crowding his mind, pushing at his closed eyelids, assaulting his senses with remembered sights and smells. His body doesn't seem his own, and his mind is working against him. He's seen this in soldiers before, seasoned veterans forever marked by hardships braved and survived. It runs deeper than wounds and takes longer to fade than scars—if ever it does fade. Demons come haunting at the most inopportune moments, debilitating him now at the eleventh hour.

He needs to focus. Something—anything—to anchor him.

Robin's thoughts turn immediately to Roland. Sweet Roland, smiling Roland…Roland in tears, screaming for his Papa. And it's all Robin's fault.

This isn't working. This is agony.

There has to be something else, something else he can hold on to, perhaps the vision of freedom—But that's too abstract, too distant, not enough to steel his nerves or calm them.

"What is _she_ doing here?" Little John's voice comes from a million leagues away.

"Ah, the Evil Queen honours us with her presence," another mocks—Robin can't tell who the voice belongs to. He tries to focus on the words; the words are his connection to reality and the present moment. "I refuse to spill me guts while she's making that bored face at me, I do."

"They say she hates these things," Much hisses—he's gained himself an injury, painful but none too grave, in one of the previous encounters. "Maybe she just hates gladiators. Or fears them."

"Nah, mate, she's cold, that one is. Doesn't give a shite for slaves and such. Doesn't give a shite for her own either. 'Cept maybe her kid and her sister."

Robin blinks. _Except her kid and her sister._ Could that mean—Is Regina here? Regina, who'd never said whether or not she would come. Regina, who'd managed somehow in the tumult that had been Roland's tearful torment to slip Robin a vial marked _don't drink—apply on skin_ , the woodsy, balsamic contents of which Robin slathered all over himself not long ago.

Regina.

His mind is clearer, his grasp on his own thoughts firmer. So he pictures her now, calls forth the image of her dressed down for the night and moving nimbly in the infirmary cell. Dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, and stray locks that would fall across her face until she pushed them back in place or tucked a strand behind her ear. Her hands, busy stitching his skin back together, now sure and firm, now light and gentle; rearranging the already flawless folds of her stola when nervous; smoothing her boy's hair affectionately or brushing her fingers through Roland's. And her eyes, gods, those eyes that speak a language of their own that he somehow—inconceivably, miraculously—understands perhaps better than words. Even the way she smells is etched so deeply into his mind that he can recall it perfectly, albeit he couldn't say just what scents it's composed of. Then there's her voice, warm and full like honey, or cool and cutting deeper than knives when she so wishes. Robin imagines it soft and low and velvety in his ear—and it feels almost as if she were there, and he can almost touch her, hear her, feel her with his every sense.

And it works. It allows him a firmer grip on reality, settles Robin's rising anxiety. It must do, for now he can finally steady himself, command his extremities to cease trembling, and turn his mind to his own service again.

The others are still at it, still gossipping and speculating on subjects they have no business thinking such graceless, ignorant thoughts about—namely, Regina.

"You've no idea what you're talking about," he cuts off their tirades and crude jokes, surprising even himself with the velocity of his voice. "So just shut up and watch the games."

That's when the signal comes for the primus to begin.

Robin dons his helmet, picks up his sword and shield, and steps onto the sacred sand.

* * *

Things aren't going well for Robin and Little John.

They'd each lost parts of their armour minutes into the match. Little John's helmet had been knocked off by a sharp blow that's left a trail of blood trickling down his face, and his staggering movements now leave something to be desired. Lackland's insidious spear had then aimed at Little John's throat, ready for the kill, but thwarted by Robin's prompt parrying manoeuvre. Unfortunately, the latter has resulted in him once again losing his shield. Free of the cumbersome thing, he's at least gained more freedom of movement.

That's all there is to say for the loss though. They're both left with weakened defences, and especially Little John has no advantage to gain from being lighter on the armour. His herculean strength is his greatest asset in the arena, and Robin suspects he doesn't quite know where to aim that strength what with his vision impaired and coordination hampered by the sustained blow. Their half-baked plan crafted in the cell the night before had counted with two murmillos banding together against a hoplomachus. Now they have an ever-present spear constantly tickling their ribs, drawing blood and teasing, tormenting, while that blasted Lackland remains completely out of reach of their much-too-short swords.

Heat is radiating off of the sand, waves of it making the air shimmer. The gentle rustle of feather fans up in the seats merges into a soft whistling not unlike that of the wind—except not a breeze reaches the scorched sand. Little John keeps wiping his brow, beads of sweat and blood stinging in his eyes, and even Lackland misses the odd opportunity to strike to readjust his slippery grip on the spear.

Robin doesn't feel a thing. He's by no means cold, but neither does he feel the vicious burn of the blazing sun. For the first time it occurs to him that he is, in fact, oddly unaffected by the extreme temperature.

He's no time to dwell on this discovery though, for that's the precise moment Lackland chooses to swing his small round shield in Robin's face, trying to throw him off balance. A futile attempt, and it leaves Lackland's side vulnerable. Robin swerves, heels digging into the wet sand. Little John's gladius is drawn to Lackland's weak spot with deadly precision, and it might even finish him off, the strength Little John puts into the blo—

A sickening crack resounds in the air as Little John's weight tumbles to the ground and lands on something—by the sound of it—very breakable. As far as Robin can tell, nothing at all hit his comrade, but Lackland is sneering so brazenly even from behind the helmet that Robin's quite sure Little John's fall was somehow, some way, Lackland's doing. He grits his teeth and lunges forward, ineffectual though his rally might be, distracting Lackland long enough for Little John to gather himself from the ground. His comrade does so groggily while Robin parries thrust after thrust of Lackland's spear.

A sunbeam falls just so, and the spear's golden tip throws off bursts of light, bright flashes that hurt Robin's eyes. His hand moves to shield his face from the torturous brightness.

Lackland braces for attack—

And Robin freezes. He can't help it. His mind has once again turned against him, and it couldn't have chosen a worse time to do so. His senses betray him, trick him into confusing memory with present reality, and Robin grips his side, feels the trident that isn't there piercing his body, and cries out in agony. He cannot move, cannot defend himself other than roll sideways on the sand, the manoeuvre more of a helpless writhing than a strategic move.

That golden tip is speeding towards him now, right between his eyes, and a shrill cry that isn't his own sounds clear above the clamour of the audience.

And it rouses him.

Suddenly his faculties are back. Robin throws himself out of the spear's way, arching away from the weapon's sharp edges. But it's too little, too late.

And then his vision is blocked by something large and roaring. Little John's diving between him and Lackland with a wild cry of fury, ready to deflect the attack. The spear clatters against the wooden shield.

Robin scrambles to his feet. As he does, his eyes fall on the section of the stands where all the dignitaries sit sampling food and wine while gladiators put their lives on the line for their entertainment—and he sees her.

Regina's too far away to really tell, but Robin still fancies he can make out the anguished arrangement of her features. He can picture her clearly: swallowing down fear, bracing herself with a hand on her stomach, making herself out so carefully emotionless when she is everything but. But she's on the edge of her seat, that much he really can see, and he could swear their eyes lock that very moment.

It's that salve she'd given him. That's what's making him immune to the crippling heat.

For how long though?

It's time to take Lackland down.

Robin sidles surreptitiously towards the edge of the arena, brandishing his gladius to parry each annoying prod of Lackland's spear. At long last, Little John seems to catch on, helping to steer the fight to the far end. Lackland must realise he's being cornered, for he soon attempts to free himself from the pincer movement pushing him ever further from the centre of the arena.

The audience boos and jeers, those with worse seats outraged that they should be deprived of the spectacle as the fighters relocate to the thin shade of the tall walls separating them from the onlookers, but Robin frankly doesn't give a shit about their appeasement right now—not with their lives hanging in the balance.

"Fucking bastards," hollers Little John, his face now the deep shade of beetroot—whether from rage or sunburn is quite impossible to tell.

Let's put an end to this, then, Robin resolves, and prepares for the move he's still not entirely sure is anything other than incredibly reckless. They had discussed this eventuality in a different scenario, him and Little John huddled in their corner poring over tactics the previous night, and he can only hope the man will catch on in time to execute it properly. Otherwise, well— Best not to think about that.

Robin measures distances and angles while constantly fighting off Lackland's devilish attacks. The man's like a particularly agile hydra, everywhere all at once and a snake if Robin ever saw one. Stalling, he lets Little John pick up the slack for a few invaluable moments as he jumps back, closing in on the wall. Lackland, mistaking his manoeuvre for flight, perhaps even impending capitulation, presses forward. Robin takes firmer stance. The distance is right. The direction is right. Lackland's spear is pointing right at him now, and Little John falls back almost imperceptibly, letting Lackland take his aim. Will he notice he's being hoodwinked?

Lackland braces for the kill. Robin stares down the shaft of the spear. Lackland advances, his whole body behind the savage stab.

It's now or never.

Robin dodges. Time seems to slow as he drags rather than jerks his body out of harm's way. The sharp edge of the spearhead grazes his side, a mere scratch that will scar but is otherwise harmless. The spear's shaft burns his hands as he attempts to grip it mid-course, hindering its forward motion.

Lackland is thrown off balance, a splash of expletives raining down on them as soon as the moment of surprise has passed, but he doesn't realise the worst of it yet. Little John is rushing in, brandishing his gladius theatrically—in fact, his manner is so exaggerated Robin wonders how in Tartarus the fool doesn't sense betrayal. Lackland raises his shield against the blow that never comes—would never land if it did, it being too predictable, too obvious—and never sees the true catastrophe coming. Little John throws his body up and forward the very moment Robin tilts the spear just so, and lands on its tail end with his full weight, cracking the eight-foot spear down to the length of perhaps five.

Robin tightens his hold on it and tugs with all his might, yanking the weapon from Lackland's hands.

The snake has presence of mind enough to draw his dagger, and Little John immediately has his hands full staving off attacks at Robin, who may now be in full possession of the spear, but is in his current disposition perfectly incapable of putting it to work the way he intends to. Time and distance is what he needs, and Little John strives to give him exactly that, slashing and hacking away at Lackland with a force the latter cannot match, but the assault of which he is quite apt at avoiding.

And Robin runs. Unencumbered by a heavy shield, he sprints along the arena's perimeter to the deafening booing and hissing of the crowd. Rotten fruit is landing all around him with a disgusting _squelch_ , but he cares very little about such trifles—the wretched idiots will be cheering him before long anyway.

Once a sufficient stretch of sand separates him from the other two, Robin turns to face the fight still raging between Lackland and Little John.

He takes a moment to weigh the spear-turned-javelin in his hand, to inspect its proportions, to gauge trajectory. Only a moment—and then he's raising the weapon, drawing his arm back, and releasing a roar from the very bottom of his belly.

The crowd gasps involuntarily, quite at a loss most likely as to just what Robin is about to do. Little John, however, throws himself to the ground at first cue, leaving a clear path for Robin's shot.

And throw he does, putting his full force behind it, and the javelin may never have been his speciality, but it's still a ranged weapon, and his aim is good enough at this distance, his actions sufficiently unorthodox to up his chances at success.

Lackland is still frozen with shock when he tumbles to the ground, the spear meant to impale his adversaries now sticking out instead from his own lifeless body.

And Robin Hood has escaped Death again.

* * *

 ** _Thumbs up? Thumbs down? Would your verdict change if I bribed you with the promise of a fluffy OQ family chapter very soon? ;)_**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Happy Friday, dear readers! In celebration of this blessed day and as a reprieve from an...eventful week, I give you the promised OQ family times._**

 _ **Enjoy! :)**_

* * *

The gods have smiled at Robin, and their favour shines upon him reflected in his boy's toothy grin.

Following his and Little John's victory against John Lackland, Robin's position among the gladiators has improved considerably. His reputation with common folk has skyrocketed, and his name is now spoken in enraptured tones along with that of Little John. Gold flows into Hades' pockets as guests vie for their presence at private parties, and there are already whispers that the bulk of the gladiators for the games during the festival of Vulcanalia will be drawn from their ludus. It's too soon for the twin feelings of accomplishment and dread over risking his life in the arena again, however, and so Robin chooses to focus on the happiness now steadily trickling into his days.

His success has brought certain more immediate rewards, and the privilege of extra food and drink as well as a cell of his own pales in comparison with the fact that he gets to see Roland on an almost daily basis.

Not all of this happens with Hades' permission or, indeed, knowledge. Once a week, after training is done for the day, Roland is brought to Robin's cell and allowed to spend the night. The rest of their time together is very much shirking, or rather outright breaking, the rules. Whenever possible, Regina smuggles Robin inside the villa to spend an hour or two with his son in a sun-soaked room instead of a sombre cell. Zelena's agreed, reluctantly, to turn a blind eye to these clandestine meetings when Hades is away in exchange for Regina's promise to keep her quiet involvement a secret from him should they ever be found out. The rest of the days, the most Robin and Roland get of each other is a few glimpses and a wave for the short minutes Regina deems appropriate and safe for a child to spend watching the men practice in the yard.

Today, however, they get more than chance glances from afar.

"And that feathery part is called fledgling—right, Papa?" Roland explains enthusiastically, a miniature bow in one hand and matching blunt arrows in the other. He's so clearly proud of his superior knowledge that Henry, whom Roland has apparently taken for his apprentice, fights valiantly to suppress a grin.

"That's fletching, Roland," Robin corrects mildly, catching the slightest hint of a chuckle from where Regina is sitting on the low wall of the fountain.

Roland nods, not bothered in the slightest by the slip of the tongue, and proceeds to draw an arrow and notch it to his little bow. His tongue peeks out in concentration as he takes careful aim. Robin watches fondly as Roland adjusts his posture just the way he's taught him, and hits the target with ease. Granted, it's a rather large one and fairly close—but Roland is four, he's learning, and this is supposed to be fun for him after all.

They clap and cheer for him, and Roland joins in to applaud himself, then hands his tiny bow to Henry.

"I think Henry will need a bigger one, m'boy," Robin chuckles and offers Henry a slender weapon chosen specifically with the boy in mind.

"I can really try?" Henry asks, wide-eyed. He couldn't deny his eagerness even if he tried, for the sparkle in his eye betrays him.

Robin turns to Regina then, finds her, quite unsurprisingly, watching the exchange with a soft smile. He tilts his head at her questioningly.

"If your mother allows it."

"By all means, go ahead," Regina returns, her thick with an emotion she chooses to chase with a smirk and a challenge. "Prove your reputation as a master archer is more than empty boasts."

"You wound me, my lady," Robin gasps, hand over his heart. Roland giggles at his antics, while Henry rolls his eyes a tad uncertainly.

All the same, Robin approaches the task at hand with all seriousness, showing Henry how to stand, how to draw with relaxed shoulders, and shares tricks on taking proper aim. Then, with a quirk of his brow and a playful glance Regina's way, he demonstrates by sending the arrow straight to the centre of the target.

"That was awesome!" cries Henry, every bit of shyness suddenly gone. He takes Robin's place with the bow, and after a couple of additional pointers, Henry and Roland take it in turns to practise.

Robin withdraws the few steps to the tinkling fountain. The air is sweet and more breathable here, tiny particles of water cooling his skin pleasantly as he sits beside Regina. He doesn't speak, and neither does she. They sit in companionable silence, each deep in their thoughts while they watch their boys honing their archery skills. Roland is simply precious with his little pout when the arrows refuse to fly the way he intends them to, and Henry's sympathetic encouragement only makes Robin's smile wider.

Will it always be this way? Stolen moments in between practice and battle, sweet enough to carry Robin through the more sordid times? He counts his blessings every day, truly he does. He's lucky to still be alive, and only partially to be credited for the achievement—a fact that only stirs up more guilt in his gut because he shouldn't be constantly asking for more, should he? But it's not himself he's asking for. Roland deserves more, he deserves _everything_ —and right now, Robin can only give him so much. His undivided attention on some days, when it's just the two of them, bedtime stories and playtime until the child literally drops into bed from sheer exhaustion. Other times, like today, a semblance of normalcy in the circle of those closest to Roland. And sometimes, count his blessings though Robin may, it all seems piteously little. This should be Roland's life all day, every day, without the need for secrecy or sneaking around.

"You're a good father, Robin."

Regina is watching him now instead of the children, and Robin wonders if perhaps his guilt has become so powerful that it radiates outward somehow. The sincerity of her look is momentarily overcast by a passing shadow that is gone a split second later.

"Thank you," he nods, not entirely placated but a touch lighter of heart all the same. He finds it's easy to open up to her, that it only becomes easier every day, so his confession spills forth freely. "Sometimes I doubt whether I can ever be the father Roland deserves. I've wondered that ever since his mother left us, but now more than ever."

A wistful look settles on her face as she turns her attention to the boys again. She remains quiet for so long Robin begins to doubt she'll even answer. When eventually she does, her voice is like a soft echo from whatever distant place her mind has wandered off to.

"It's hard enough to be one of two parents, but to be the only one… To have to be both… You just want to do good by them, don't you? But somehow you never feel quite enough…"

And Robin no longer cares where Regina's mind's gone, only has the most overwhelming urge to coax her back to the here and now, to where his boy and hers are laughing at the odd shape of the nicks left in the target as they each retrieve their arrows in preparation for round two. Regina is married, and yet from the darkness that sits heavy on her features she reveals that, as far as she's concerned, her husband is no father to Henry. He wonders with his fists clenched just what kind of a man the senator must be to inspire such bleakness in Regina. But Leopold shouldn't be his concern right now, and isn't. Regina is. And however can she even for a moment consider herself anything less than the absolutely awe-inspiring woman she is?

"You are a wonderful mother, Regina," he says insistently, because she is that—warm, and caring, and fiercely protective. "Your Henry's a bright, brave lad, and he adores you."

Her smile starts slow and bashful, like a flame flickering in the wind that threatens to snuff it out.

"Thank you," she breathes. "And thank you," she adds with a voice that manages to be more like her own and less so, and he knows immediately that's all the insecurities she'll be baring to him for now, "for teaching Henry. He loves it—and quite admires the legendary Prince of Thieves."

Robin's smirk matches her teasing smile. The nickname is both old and new, reinvented by Capuan higher classes after Robin's sleight of the stolen spear, when in fact the lowest of the low in the streets of Rome had dubbed him the very same quite some time ago, back in his thieving days.

"Careful, Your Majesty," he jibes back, "or I might mistake your words for an invitation to steal something of yours."

"Anything in particular you've set your sights on?"

Yes. Yes there is, and he has. He shouldn't, but gods grant favour, he has all the same. He can feel it in his gut, growing every day—the flutter in his belly whenever he lays eyes on her, the tingle and thrill of her touch, the comfort he garners from her presence alone—and he never names this burgeoning feeling he knows is more likely to doom him than to ever come to fruition. But just because he doesn't speak it doesn't make it untrue, and Robin's no liar.

"Perhaps," is what he settles for, and manages a crooked smile under the pretence of playfulness. "I'd rather not tell just yet—a good thief doesn't reveal his plans."

Regina looks at him sideways, scraps of a thousand emotions vying to float to the surface. Her answer is not at all what Robin expects.

"Perhaps if you did, I might just give it to you willingly."

His heart stutters almost painfully at her charged words. Is it just wishful thinking, or was the intent really there? He dare not ask, and she most certainly does not tell. But he doesn't want silence to settle between them this time—he wants her to talk, wants the sound of her voice in his ear.

He needs not fish for a topic, for there's one particular thing that's occupied his mind for quite some time. Well, now's as good a moment as any to finally ask.

"The morning of my execution," he begins rather without preamble, for he's not really sure how he could possibly find a smoother transition to this topic. Sure enough, Regina tenses next to him, wringing her hands before she catches herself in the act and folds them neatly in her lap, now biting the inside of her cheek instead. It is hardly a pleasant memory, the fact that he had been this close to hanging from a tree and being flogged to death, but he's still among the living after all, and very few can say they've survived their own execution to talk about it. "I was saved by a Vestal who happened to cross my path on the way to my death. I've always wondered—forgive my asking—was it pure chance that she should come by?"

Her gaze locks onto his, blazing with—defiance, perhaps? And searching. Weighing.

"Is it so hard to believe the Fates made your paths cross? That Fortuna simply favoured you?"

 _I would sooner believe the Fates have made_ our _paths cross,_ Robin's mind throws back, and he would chastise himself for such bold thoughts, but can he really help it if his heart insists on planting such dangerous ideas in him?

"I do believe Fortuna favoured me," he nods slowly, weighing his words. "I believe she still does, actually. Through you."

"You give me too much credit, Robin. You shouldn't test the gods so, knowing how petty they can be."

"Now who's testing the gods," he can't help but counter. She doesn't return his grin, but drops her eyes and stares at her hands in silence for a while.

"Tinkerbell is an old friend of mine," she finally admits in a voice so low Robin involuntarily leans closer to catch her words at all. " _If_ she had been there because I'd asked her to be, it would have been a breach of the law, and we'd both suffer dearly for our crime if anyone were ever to find out."

It is true then, just like Robin has suspected. The Vestal who'd miraculously come upon him had in fact been directed there, pardoning a criminal with her touch as custom has it—only not, as it should be, by happenstance, but by request. Regina's request. Is the priestess paying the price for her goodwill?

"She's all right though—your friend?"

"Yes—well, for the most part." Regina won't look at him, her eyes gazing instead into the faraway distance. Perhaps picturing those in Rome that would harm them, judging by the cautioning tone her next words are tinted with. "Those are powerful enemies we've made, and their reach is long. Don't ever speak of this again."

Her voice wavers slightly—enough for Robin to reach for her hand on impulse, seeking to offer reassurance. She starts at the unexpected touch but doesn't pull away, and their eyes lock. That was no command, her apprehensive look reads, but a plea. Her friend may be safe for now, they may all be getting away with the ruse for the time being, but such safety is a fragile thing.

"I won't," he vows, squeezing her fingers. Robin has his answer now, and he will not jeopardise things further. "Please tell your friend thank you for me."

"I already have." She smiles softly—and squeezes back.

That elusive but satisfying smile of hers lingers with him even as he closes his eyes that night, and perhaps, Robin marvels before sleep claims him, the gods—and he has a particular deity in mind now, a goddess born from sea foam, whom his drowsy mind now pictures with Regina's hair, and her eyes, and her mouth—have after all smiled at him in more ways than one.

* * *

The villa begins to feel too small for their pursuits just as Regina's heart, too, starts to feel rather too small to contain the full range of emotions it has no business entertaining.

The boys are racing each other in the courtyard, weaving in between columns and shrubs and statues in a game of tag. Robin joins them now and then, chasing down Roland to scoop him up and tickle him till the little boy's shrieking giggles echo throughout the empty house. Henry watches them with a small smile and a wistful look, making Regina's chest constrict, and she rushes over to him to place an arm around his shoulder and a kiss on his forehead, small consolation though she thinks it must be. Henry turns into her though, throws his arms around her waist and locks her in a tight embrace.

Regina's eyes meet Robin's, and understanding passes between them without words.

She tells herself it's only because they're both parents, that that's all there is to this remarkable connection. Moments of silent understanding that their children are everything, that they will always come first—not for Rome, not as tools to further her glory and fame as Leopold has so often tried to impress upon Regina and, worse yet, Henry, but for the boys themselves. That's a powerful bond, one she's never really shared with anyone—she imagines most Roman matrons not quite as bad as Cora but just as amenable to raising offspring for the sake of retaining and furthering a sense of patriotism that, quite frankly, disturbingly often crosses into the territory of gross superiority and entitlement.

It makes sense, doesn't it, to feel such close kinship to the one person sharing her sentiments. It is, after all, much of what had motivated her to advocate for him when Rumplestiltskin had set out to destroy the thief with the audacity to try and rob the mighty censor. And Robin is a good man, despite his criminal past. An honourable man. He knows how to listen without pushing for more than she's willing to offer, and he's ever ready to match her sarcasm with his wit. On most days, he manages to coax a smile out of her, and his eyes crinkle just so when he gives her a boyish grin in response. It zings between them, this thing she cannot—will not—name, and she thinks he feels it, too. Perhaps.

It doesn't matter, really, it's nothing to worry about or muse upon—just two people bonding over their children, perhaps inching towards…friendship. That is all.

 _Liar_ , mocks her brain.

 _Coward_ , whispers her heart.

An insistent tug on her stola chases away the nagging little voices, and she finds herself blinking down at Roland.

"R'gina, can we go out in the carriage? I wanna show Papa the big marketplace with all the merchants in strange clothes speaking strange tongues, who sell ever'thing under the sun!"

He's looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes, all eager and expectant, and she hates to crush his hopes. Robin grimaces apologetically—they've tried to explain this to Roland on several previous occasions, but the child simply refuses to accept the limits to his explorations.

"Roland, my boy, I've told you before—we can't go out to town. We have the whole huge villa to ourselves, and we can play wherever you like here."

"But I wanna show you, Papa!" Roland insists vehemently with a hint of exasperation at the adults' pathetic lack of understanding. "There's all kinds of great stuff —and they don't chase me away from their stalls like those fancy shops on the Forum used to."

Robin's face turns a deep shade of fuchsia, and he rubs his neck, refusing to meet Regina's eye. That suits Regina just fine, for she's fairly certain she feels her own cheeks flush. The Forum Romanum houses luxury shops the owners of which had no doubt figured out that the appearance of children like Roland, clean and fed though he'd always been but still obviously from the poor quarters, often comes with damaged or entirely vanished goods. Robin had no doubt been responsible for a fair share of those disappearances, judging by his embarrassed look. His shame doesn't come from his profession, however, but from a deep-rooted agony of having been unable to provide for Roland better, to give him more, to spare him the plight of the lower classes.

"That's because you don't steal anymore," Henry answers sagely, though not particularly tactfully—yet hitting the nail on its head with the innocent sincerity of the young. "Much," he amends with a shrug, and Roland giggles, then claps his hands over his mouth, glancing at Regina sheepishly.

"Can we go if I promise to be good?" he begs, toying with Regina's fingers.

She crouches down to meet his eye, uncaring for the dust immediately clinging to her fine attire.

"Roland, sweetheart, it has nothing to do with you, I promise."

"Papa won't steal anything either—right, Papa? He doesn't need to now that he's got this new job." Roland turns to Robin and tugs him closer by the hand, still clutching Regina's with the other. They're so close they're almost touching, hers and Robin's, both of them stooping to the little boy's level as Roland implores with his father: "Papa, promise Regina!"

"Listen, little man," Robin begins, but that's about all he seems to have prepared, for after an awkward silence, he looks despairingly at her.

 _Gifted thief, dreadful liar_ , she thinks fondly as her mind works furiously to come up with an excuse that's not too bad a deception but just enough to spare Roland the harsh truth.

"Robin must stay to hold the fort." Henry comes to the rescue, leaning against Regina's shoulder. "He's keeping it safe here, you know."

Regina could just hug him, her brilliant, wonderful son—and she will, just as soon as Roland isn't there to catch wind of this little conspiracy to safeguard his innocent heart. For now, she makes do with a grateful smile she only hopes conveys how proud she is of him, and Robin pats him affectionately on the shoulder as they all rise.

They follow the slightly disappointed but appeased Roland into the triclinium for a snack, and Robin steps back at the door to let Regina through first. Not having expected that, she manages only in the last moment not to bump into him. Their arms brush. Regina's a little off balance from the efforts to swerve to the side already, and this, them touching, no matter how lightly or briefly, throws her still more. Her knees are wobbly, and she raises a hand to brace herself against the door frame, but Robin's arms are already coming up around her waist—ever gentle, only grasping enough to steady her.

The very air between them seems to shiver.

They're staring at each other, locked in an awkward sort of not-quite-embrace, her arm hovering uselessly inches from the door frame. His eyes look darker up close than they otherwise do, specked with grey just like his hair and beard are. He smells like forest, fresh and woodsy, from the essence she's kept him well-supplied with against the heatwave scorching Capua. And he seems to not be breathing, or indeed moving, other than the rise and fall of his chest.

So he must be breathing after all, she thinks stupidly.

Wait, how can she tell?

Her right arm—it's resting against his chest, gripping at his tunic just over his heart.

Heat of a kind that has nothing at all to do with the weather washes over her, and she almost can't bear his gaze—only, oddly enough, she somehow can't bear looking away from him either.

Hooves clatter in the courtyard, and the two spring apart as if lighting had struck between them.

Just in time, Regina thinks, mortified, for a man jumps off the bay horse she recognises at once, and they were almost caught—

Doing what, exactly?

 _Connecting_ , a little voice mocks in her ear, _as parents—_ and that voice sounds remarkably like the very person Regina knows had sent the messenger.

Regina directs the bedraggled man to the kitchen to be fed and watered, calls for the stable hand to do the same for Raven, and breaks the familiar seal of the letter with trembling hands.

 _Dear old friend,_

 _I'm afraid that, by sending this note, I'm playing right into your mother's cards. Yet I dare not keep my silence, just in case this isn't another of her nasty schemes and there's actually a grain of truth in the rumours floating about Rome. There is talk of a grave illness ailing your father. I've cast my net wide and can confirm that he's not been seen out and about in over a week now, while one medicus after another has been coming and going at your parents' house. None of this means this is more than a ploy to lure you back to Rome, where Cora hopes to keep you in her clutches. I don't need to remind you that your father is the obvious choice to have you rushing back, and my instincts tell me that's exactly what this is all about. But I know you wouldn't ever forgive me if the rumours turned out to be true and you weren't notified._

 _Do what you must, little one, but remain cautious._

 _Mal_

Regina closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. She and Mal don't keep up a regular correspondence, so her expectations weren't exactly rosy to begin with—she rarely expects news of any kind to be good in general. But this, the very possibility of Daddy being gravely ill, has her instantly in tears. Her stomach seems to have twisted itself into half a dozen knots, and air barely comes in quick, shallow gasps.

"Bad news?" Robin asks quietly, keeping a respectful distance despite the concern etched deep in his voice.

"It's my father," she hears her own hollow whisper. "He's taken ill."

"Regina—I'm sorry."

He approaches her now—not in the stealthy, light-footed manner she knows he's capable of, but making sure she can see him coming so as not to startle her. He reaches for her hand still clutching the note—white-knuckled, numb, and shaking by now—and stops just short of touching her. She moves closer to him without ever deciding to, and he covers her hand with his then, brushing his thumb over her wrist in soothing passes.

She shouldn't be leaning into him. Not when she feels all raw and exposed (she trusts him not to hold this against her ever, and when was the last time she felt safe with someone?), not when there are these dangerous _feelings_ for him brewing inside her (she'll push them away again soon, what's the harm in indulging just for a moment?), and certainly not where anyone could happen upon them (they're all inside hiding from the heat or out in the city for hours to come). But she needs this, craves the comfort of his embrace—and so for the first time, she allows herself this moment of insanity, winds her arms around his torso sheepishly as he holds her and strokes up and down her back.

Slowly, Regina's breathing evens out, in sync with the rise and fall of Robin's chest. Her heart is still racing though, and her brain's running a mile an hour.

A ghost of a kiss lands in her hair— _oh gods_ —launching yet another tidal wave of treacherous emoti—

The ominous note slips from her fingers and rustles as she shifts her grip on it.

Right. The message. That's what she should be focusing on rather than the feel of Robin against her, or the sweet relief of someone willingly being there for her for once, or the resentment that comes with the idea of parting from him.

Regina disentangles herself from his embrace—Robin lets her go without further ado or, indeed, so much as a word spoken all the while, though he does seem to relish the lingering touch of their limbs brushing as they both take a step back—and stares at the note in her hand, forcing her jittery nerves to still.

There's not really any question as to what she must do. She's not going to take any chances. Rationally, she agrees with Mal, has no illusions about the lengths to which Cora would go to have Regina within her grasp again, and wouldn't put it past her mother to have manipulated the situation just as Mal suspects she has. But Regina also knows that she couldn't live with herself if Daddy were truly sick and she chose to stay away. Not out of fear of her heartless mother. Not for anything.

She may not like it, she may even be making a grave mistake, but her mind is made up.

Regina is going back to Rome.

* * *

 _ **Thumbs up? Thumbs down? Or are you undecided yet on whether Regina's making the right choice? We'll see! We'll see... ;)**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Ave, relentless and patient reader! What better day than the Ides of March to pick up the thread of this story again? Last time we heard from them, Regina and Robin had just begun to acknowledge the sting of Cupid's arrow when an ominous letter called for Regina's urgent return to Rome...**_

 _ **Happy reading, and gratitude for your continued support!**_

 _ **(You can now access this story on A3O as well - 9/9 Muses would recommend due to A3O's lack of censorship of future Erato-approved aka explicit scenes.)**_

* * *

Regina has well and truly walked into a trap. No, not walked—raced headlong into it, for the horses, spurred by Regina's order to nigh flight along the Via Appia, will need nothing short of a miracle to recover.

So, according to the puzzled line of medici coming and going in her parents' house, will Regina's father.

That at least was not a lie, but the realness of his condition is everything but consolation to Regina. The mysterious ailment has yet to be diagnosed in the first place, and a cure is nowhere in sight. Regina can't bear to watch another wise man scratch their learned head for varying lengths of time only to eventually shuffle out of the dim room with a helpless shrug; or another charlatan gambling with her father's health and causing more harm than good. Dismissing the slave girl (they come and go under Cora's iron fist so fast Regina can't keep track of them) mother had stationed by Daddy's sickbed the very afternoon of her arrival, Regina settles into the bedroom to nurse him herself.

Cora appears shortly after, her daughter's disobedience apparently as powerful a magnet as ever.

"Regina, dear, how nice of you to stop by," she says by way of greeting. How typical of her to make even words of welcome a thinly veiled reprimand. "You could have sent word, you know. Or come to greet your mother before you disrupt your father's treatment."

"Treatment that doesn't seem to be working. And you didn't even bother sending word of his illness!"

Regina clenches her fists in an attempt to rein in the rising temper that burst forth so readily. Cora doesn't respond well to such outbursts, even if it's righteous anger, and Regina simply knows that all her indignation will earn her is a withering look and a lecture. She doesn't think she could stand either right now.

Cora gives her an appraising once-over that lingers on Regina's white knuckles before she has presence of mind enough to hide them in her stola, and Regina bites her lip—another mistake—at the realisation that her distress is plain as day to her mother. A knowing smile plays on Cora's lips, acknowledgement of Regina's effort to contain her passions, and Regina hates every moment of this already.

Mother never does shy away from adding fuel to the fire, however, and she hurls another caustic remark Regina's way.

"How would I have known where to reach you when you're neither at one of your husband's many residences nor mine?"

"You know perfectly well I've been staying with Zelena."

"I won't have that name spoken in this house," Cora grits coldly, her eyes hard and flashing dangerously. "I don't know why you insist on associating with her in the fir—"

"She's my sister, Mother," Regina returns on a sigh. They've been over this a hundred times before, and it's of no importance at the moment. All that matters, all that she should be focusing on right now, is Daddy's well-being. "How did this happen?"

"If you'd known your place, Regina, you wouldn't have to ask because you'd have been here. Perhaps then your father wouldn't have gotten himself sick gorging on mediocre wine."

Daddy never drinks wine he himself hasn't produced and mixed. Regina knows that. Cora knows it, too. The sinister smile and dangerous glint in her eye say so, and Regina shudders.

This was a trap just as suspected, only much worse.

Regina knows then that no medicus will ever be able to cure her father, and by the time she figures out a way, he might well be beyond helping.

So Regina turns to an old friend instead.

* * *

Mal, may the gods bless her, catches on immediately.

"You think Cora's been poisoning your father."

"It's possible," Regina lets on. After all this time, she's still reluctant to face the reality of just how deep her mother's heartlessness runs. It makes it all worse somehow to voice those thoughts rather than merely think them. But not speaking of it will not make it go away, and she's sworn to herself to resist the instinct to defend her mother—before others as well as herself. And this is Mal—she knows anyway, knows more than anyone else about Cora's depravity. So Regina takes a deep breath and amends: "I do. I do think she's caused whatever is wrong with Daddy to get me to—to return to Rome."

 _To get me to do what she wants._ Because that's what her mother does—manipulate and extort to get her way.

Mal nods darkly, the purse of her lips the only indication of her dismay as she rummages through the cabinet the key to which she keeps hidden in the ornate walking stick that never leaves her side. Her home is as dark and isolated as ever at the end of a blind alley. Mal has a reputation, one that makes most respectable, god-fearing Romans give the place—and the woman—a wide berth. They say she's evil and malicious, a disciple of the ghastly goddess Trivia, whom she allegedly worships at crossroads by the darkest night. The rumours are true to an extent, for Mal certainly does meddle with substances others won't touch, apt like no other at mixing dreadful poisons and devious drugs. But for every poison there's an antidote, and, if so inclined, Mal's skill and knowledge at concocting just the right one is just as unparallelled.

Regina is not an unskilled herbalist herself, much of her prowess owed to none other than Mal, but she knows she's in over her head this time. The stash of hastily collected evidence—sweat-soaked towels, the contents of half-drunk glasses, meticulously noted observations of Daddy's condition on scraps of parchment—lies in a pile on Mal's table, and Regina prays it will be enough. Prays silently, not daring to disturb Mal's concentration as she pulls ingredient after ingredient from the depths of the cabinet: hyssop, fennel, and mallow among them, plus half a dozen others besides.

"It's going to need a fortnight," Mal says at long last, never looking up from the table now strewn with herbs and containers and dusty rolls of parchment.

"But you can help him?" Regina asks, her voice higher than intended, younger—fearful, she realises.

Adding fresh leaves of mint into a silver mortar, Mal wields the pestle with expert precision, her face drawing into a mask of cold determination.

"Oh, I shall certainly try."

* * *

What Robin wouldn't give for a moment to himself.

Oh how he misses roaming the streets of Rome, wearing a path in its less explored nooks, sauntering outside the walls, past the seedy shanty towns and into the woods. Nothing like the forest to clear one's mind. The wooded areas outside Rome also provided shelter from hired mercenaries of one rich patrician or another incensed by Robin's deft fingers and brazen courage.

There's no hiding from unwanted company in the ludus.

Robin now has a new cellmate in the person of Little John, and has taken as well as possible to the living arrangements. The dingy cell is barely large enough to allow for two full strides in width and perhaps five in length, and privacy is a luxury they simply can't afford. Such close quarters, Robin had learnt during his career in the legions, either make for fast friends or faster enemies. Despite their rocky start, Robin sure has lucked out with Little John, for they're getting on splendidly. Much of his life is now an open book to the man, and vice versa. But some things Robin can't and won't confide, and these are precisely the ones pressing down on him in a maddening motley that refuses to be untangled within the tight confines of four walls and the accompaniment of Little John's sonorous snoring.

Those treacherous thoughts lead him on a small number of well-trodden paths, to Roland (he's never not thinking about his boy, wondering when he would next clasp him in his arms), to Regina (he hopes her father's health is on the improve, her heart lighter with each passing day) and Henry (bless him for his generous soul and the readiness with which he's embraced Roland as a brother), to the shabby little cubicle ridden with rats that used to be Robin's home (not better by much than this, but at least he'd been free to come and go as he'd pleased). He's spent countless nights devising and revising plans and strategies to achieve his goal and break free from Hades' service, going over new numbers and techniques for upcoming battles, and plain and simple hating the guts of the orchestrators of his downfall (Hades is only a tool after all, the censor and praetor being the true villains).

But tonight he's pondering neither of those things. Tonight Robin's mind is otherwise occupied.

There were whispers that day, whispers Robin overheard. He can't help but wonder that perhaps he was supposed to, that he didn't just imagine Little John's conspiratorial wink or his frown at Robin's lack of response. A single word passed from one man to another with a touch of reverence, a pinch of excitement, and an unmistakably illicit tang to it. Just one word—but if caught by the wrong person, it could end them all in an instant. A name charged with meaning even decades after its rise to fame—or, to some, infamy.

 _Spartacus._

 _The wind carried the name like the mischievous vagrant it was, flighty and free to roam wherever it pleased, ever elusive and unfettered. It whispered conspiratorially, as though the name alone weren_ _'t enough to doom the lot of them were it to reach the wrong ears. But whose wagging tongue had first given the words wings?_

 _It must have been one of the new ones, those merely passing through the sturdy walls of villa Hades. A host of gladiators from a ludus in southern Campania had been admitted to lodge at the villa to rest and recover on their way to Rome. The first stir came with the knowledge that nigh half of them were no slaves but contracted freedmen selling their prowess and good name for coin and dubious fame. Hades_ _' familia gladiatoria having no such members at the time, the lodgers were quite the curiosity, pestered with jests and earnest queries alike. Robin for one couldn't wrap his head around their motivations, but he enjoyed with a bittersweet stab in his chest the news they shared of life elsewhere. He'd decided it was important, if painful, to remind himself that there was in fact life outside these walls—life he had every intention to return to one day, so he'd do best to keep up with public affairs as much as he could._

 _So Robin listened—and heard more than he_ _'d bargained for._

 _About fantastic beasts from faraway lands, atrocious executions and heroic fights, and a curiosity unlike anything Rome has seen before—a female gladiatrix, the first of her kind, entering the field of her own free will._

 _And then, a fresh breeze, a changing wind to stir the gentle waves into an excited ripple, a surge of water that wasn_ _'t a tidal wave just yet but could perhaps foretell a turning tide._

 _It sent Robin_ _'s mind reeling, sloshing over hope and dread and colliding with conflicting moral issues hard to untangle. A single name for now that echoed in his ears, hammered against his skull, and beat against his ribcage:_

 _Spartacus, Spartacus, Spartacus._

Little John's pallet rustles as the man tosses and turns, the absence of his snores drawing a series of fake ones from Robin. He's in no mood to talk just yet, to discuss the matter further. He's yet to figure out just what this could mean—for him, and for them all. There's little doubt as to the intent behind the name's appearance, yet he can't quite fathom the boldness of the plan.

But is there a plan? Or is it just foolish fancy, a half-baked fantasy to lead them to their doom?

Will there, like decades before them, be another revolt? Another bold attempt at freedom from the yoke of peddlers like Hades? Another failed attempt that will see the Via Appia lined anew with dying men and women strapped to crosses?

So many lives would be lost—on both sides.

Robin's heart squeezes at the thought—what would happen to Roland in the city if unrest were to break out? To Regina and Henry? They'd be their enemies, members of that hateful class the slaves had on several occasions before raised arms against. They'd be _his_ enemies.

The jumble of thought Robin's hoped to unravel only tangles up more. He stares into the dark, feeling himself on the brink of a crossroads plunged in blackness.

Where do his loyalties lie?

For hours, or so it seems, Robin weighs his options, views the problem from every which angle, attempts to tell right from wrong, until a very prominent snore rouses him—and he smirks. He doesn't have to make any decisions tonight. Perhaps in the light of day, he will see a clear path before him. Perhaps there's nothing to decide after all. Just a rudis—a simple piece of wood charged with meaning—to strive for for years on end, enduring beatings and burns and shackles.

Robin closes his eyes and hopes for pleasant dreams.

* * *

A fortnight is a long time to watch a loved one suffer, and a longer time still to suffer Mother's scheming and controlling tendencies on top.

But Regina will do it—just as Cora knew she would. Cora is skilled after all at wielding Regina's love and loyalty as a weapon, and Regina struggles and fails to silence the echo of her mother's words playing over and over in her head, hammering in that _love is weakness, Regina_ —hating it so much because in a way, it truly is. Cora makes it so, doesn't shy away from hurting those Regina cares about to further her own agenda. Just what that is this time around, Regina has yet to find out.

"Weren't you quite done with breakfast, dear?" Cora admonishes when Regina reaches for a plump red apple.

Regina fights the impulse to withdraw her hand, and makes it a point to flash a defiant look Cora's way before taking a generous bite. It's just as juicy to the taste as it was pleasant to the eye, and damn if she won't enjoy every delicious morsel.

"Don't be such a child, Regina. I have something for us to discuss."

The timing is as awful as they come. Regina has a sick father to tend to and other engagements today of all days. Yet she's finally close to learning just what ambitious goal has had her mother wanting for Regina's presence enough to not merely fabricate a rumour about Daddy's illness, but make sure it's a true one, too. Regina's stomach revolts at the very thought, and the anger floats close to the surface all of a sudden, its silent simmer rising to a boiling rage. She only barely manages to keep it bottled up for a moment longer as she lays her hands in her lap, fisting the powder blue of her attire out of sight of Cora's critical eye.

"What is it, Mother?" she grits through clenched teeth.

"There's a war coming, Regina, and we need to make sure we're on the winning side."

"Rome is always at war," Regina dismisses irritably. Campaigns. Triumphs. Thousands of dead. And then there are the inner squabbles, elections sabotaged and botched and bought with money and blood. Yes, Rome is always at war, always in competition with others and herself. Cora lives for just that though—and ironically, the daughter that takes after her in this respect is precisely the one Cora has cast away. Regina, on the other hand, wants no part in it.

She might not have a choice.

"George and Midas are going to run for consul together."

"Are you sure?" But Regina already knows the answer to that—of course Cora's sure. This is, after all, what she does. Yet Regina can't quite imagine those two as running mates. She's overheard one too many shouting matches Leopold's had to settle. "They hate each other."

But Cora merely scoffs.

"Personal feelings are of no consequence in such matters. You should have learnt that a long time ago."

"Your mother's quite right, dearie."

The very voice of the new arrival raises gooseflesh on Regina's arms. She's heard it often enough, too often even, both as a child growing up in this house, and recently in her adult life, obliged to barter with it.

Leopold, George, and Midas may well be the most powerful trio in Rome, but it is Rumplestiltskin who pulls the strings from his censor's office.

He steps into the triclinium with an exaggerated bow, sending a ripple through the folds of his purple-bordered toga. The feared censor, while most efficient in matters of finance, is a cynic at heart when it comes to his role of upholding morality—one he never hesitates to use to his own benefit. Yet few realise the pathos with which he speaks of morality and tradition is in fact mockery. Regina sees through the act; and surprisingly enough, Leopold must, too, for he certainly detests the imp (which might just be one of the precious few positive traits of her husband).

"I personally despise them both," Rumplestiltskin giggles as he lowers himself onto the unoccupied dining couch and helps himself to food and drink. "But I'm willing to lend a hand. Midas will lend George the money necessary to raise an army, and George will use it to further his fame and improve Midas' chances of winning in the process. The fool can certainly use it."

George, already commanding a substantial private army, is a glorified thug if you ask Regina, and Midas no more than a pompous buffoon whose hunger for gold only grows the more it is fed. It seems the next one will be known as the year Bribery and Thuggery were consuls in Rome.

"What's in it for you?" Regina asks with narrowed eyes.

"That's my business," comes Rumplestiltskin's non-answer accompanied by an odd little wiggle of his fingers.

"You understand of course," Cora chimes in, her tone suggesting how very much she actually doubts her daughter's intelligence, "that this puts your husband in a precarious position. If Leopold wants to run for consul, he may have a hard time beating those two united."

And yes, fine, that does make sense, but: "I don't care about any of that."

"Oh but you should, dearie." Rumplestiltskin's smug, dispassionate face irks—and yes, unsettles—Regina more that she likes to admit. "You wouldn't want to stay married to an exile, now would you?"

"What is it you'd have me do? Divorce him?" she asks with purest sarcasm, for the very thought that Leopold would ever allow such a thing is ridiculous. That option may be available in theory, and it may be fairly ordinary for Roman men and women to marry, divorce, and remarry again for political or economical reasons, but Leopold is a stickler for tradition, and he'd never stand for this. And then there's Henry—

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Regina," says Cora, that reproachful tone permeating her voice again. "Leopold might beat one of them, or even both, to the consulship—in which case there will be no need for that. Now, if he does lose, you will of course want to remarry."

"What?!" Any thought of divorce is absurd enough, but this—this is outright impossible. Regina won't do it. She just won't, couldn't stand escaping one loveless marriage only to enter another. "Mother, you can't just—choose another husband for me. Not again."

"Don't be ridiculous, dear, of course I can. But I haven't—yet. Be a good girl and you may choose for yourself this time if you're quick about it. You're not terribly old or entirely unattractive when you choose to make an effort, and George and Midas are both currently wifeless."

"So those are my options."

Regina's voice is hollow now, controlled. She needs time to process this, cannot comprehend the calamity closing in just yet, much less devise a plan of escape. But she won't give her mother or the despicable censor the satisfaction of glimpsing the way her insides twist and turn with dread and rising nausea.

"Those are your options," Cora deadpans. "Although I'd lean towards George if I were you. We already have money—he can bring glory to our name again. Plus, with all the warmongering, chances are he'll last shorter than Midas. There is of course the unfortunate matter of that thieving slave you antagonised him over—"

"And in this scenario of yours, what exactly happens to Henry?"

She knows what happens well enough—it's what always happens after a divorce. The children are under the authority of the father, and the mother has no legal claim to them. Now, provided that a divorce is amicable, she may well stay a part of their life; if not, well, a grudging ex-husband could make sure she never sees them again. Her mother must be mad if she thinks for a second that Regina would risk being separated from Henry like that. But her mother also won't fight to arrange a better deal for them—a suspicion Cora confirms all too readily.

"He stays with his father of course," she scoffs, and Rumple lets out a strangled, gleeful sound. "I don't see why either of them would even want a disgraced man's child when they can perfectly well produce their own heirs."

"Daddy didn't mind."

Regina's sharp retort—foolish, pointless, but she simply cannot help vexing her mother when Cora just sits there plotting out Regina's life so unflinchingly even after she's already destroyed it—has Rumplestiltskin gasp theatrically with a note of unabashed amusement, while Cora's face goes from utter shock to stone-cold contempt in an instant.

"Enough," she hisses coolly. "We shall continue this conversation once you're ready to behave like a grown woman rather than a spiteful little girl."

Taking her cue and grateful for it, Regina rises from the table and orders Clodia to cancel the litter she had the girl prepare earlier. A walk is just what she needs to clear her head right now.

* * *

Regina wanders down tightly packed winding roads, stumbles across dingy alleys smelling of urine and excrement, weaves through the crowds on the Forum. When she reaches Midas' theatre complex, the very first of its kind in the city, her lips curl at the sprawling marble monstrosity with its ostentatious gardens, galleries, and colonnades. Built to impress and ingratiate, the extravagant undertaking for all its bluster managed to accomplish just the opposite—deemed too un-Roman in its excess, it had been snubbed and scorned and ridiculed by the populace of Rome much like the man whose name it carries. The building has since wormed its way into the people's hearts—or at the very least, their lives—but Midas has never quite recovered from the consequences of his spectacularly backfired plan. With his new-man status—forever viewed with suspicion if not contempt by many of the oldest, most respectable Roman families—reemerging into public consciousness just as his military conquests are fading from memory, Midas needs all the backing he can possibly get from his powerful allies.

A shiver seizes her at the thought she's to be one such tool, and Regina strives to shake it off speedily, for she's almost reached her destination.

The shopkeepers occupying the front of the house greet her—Marco the carpenter raises the hand not gripping a hammer, Goldilocks the barber looks up with a smile from sweeping the floor—as Regina enters the large white domus.

"Regina! So good to see you," Snow floats to her side within the blink of an eye, not quite daring to hug but grasping Regina's hands in her own at least. "I was beginning to worry you've worn yourself sick at your father's bedside. How is he?"

Regina smiles. The day hasn't been all horrible, after all.

"Not bad today, actually. I even convinced him to drink all of his broth this morning. Henry?"

"Studying with Archie, as you requested." Snow spills the beans then, her knowing smile more amusement than disapproval. "At least that's what they've been doing since I caught him trying to sneak out after you."

Regina stares.

"He didn't."

"Oh yes, he did. He's a good boy; he just has his own head. His mother's child."

Regina knows her eyeroll isn't fooling anyone—certainly not Snow, who's known her far too long not to see right through it—even as she masks the warmth melting her heart at the simple comment.

"Thanks for having him. And me."

"Please. I'm always glad to see my little brother. And you." Snow sighs as her eyes drift to the door Regina hasn't strayed too far from, her intentions all too clear. "Couldn't you both stay a little longer? You've been neglecting me lately."

Regina bristles, guilt and anger slicing through her. She doesn't like being guilt-tripped. But, though used to getting her way, Snow is no Cora—she doesn't thrive on manipulation. And she's not wrong—Regina's been rejecting invitations and cancelling outings for much too long, only to seek out her stepdaughter the second she needed her help.

"I just have a lot going on these days, Snow," Regina sighs—it's as close an apology as Snow's getting, but she knows it will be accepted as such. "I need to return to Daddy, and Henry has—places to be."

"Someday," Snow lowers her voice to a near-whisper, "you're going to tell me where it is you're taking him that Father can't know of."

"Some day."

Regina resists, though only barely, the urge to press upon Snow once again the importance of speaking nothing of these little episodes to Leopold or anyone else. Snow may have blundered once and betrayed Regina's trust, but that childish mistake when she was but twelve years old took a toll on their relationship Regina knows the woman is in no hurry to repeat. A necessity—that's what had Regina entrust another secret to a more mature Snow. Not all of the secret, certainly, but part of one even Leopold prefers to keep from his precious daughter, denying Snow nothing except the truths he thinks could taint his perfect image in his adoring girl's doey eyes.

Such as the truth about Henry's parentage.

* * *

"Can Roland really not come along?" Henry bargains as they walk the streets side by side.

Regina sighs and squeezes his hand. She hates disappointing him, but there's no way around it this time.

"I'm sorry, Henry, but we've been through this. We can't expect Roland to keep a secret like this just yet."

"I already miss him though," Henry shrugs, hanging his shoulders. "I'm used to having him around. It's weird that he's not staying at Snow's with us."

"I know, honey, but Auntie Mal's is closer, so I can check on him more easily—he's not a big boy like you, and you know how he misses his Papa. Besides, Snow has enough on her plate with the baby, and from what I hear," Regina adds pointedly, "you haven't been making things any easier for her."

"Oh." Henry shuffles uncomfortably. "She told you?"

"That you tried to sneak out? She did." She says no more than that, and doesn't need to—Henry's repentant enough under her reprimanding eye.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I wanted to see Grandpa. You said he's doing better—and I miss him."

His words squeeze at Regina's chest, and she stops in her tracks. A man, bundled up to his eyes in a cloak much too thick for the season, bumps into them a split second later and hurries off with not an look to spare. Regina huffs in annoyance—in these narrow alleyways, collisions are unavoidable, but a hasty, muttered apology surely wouldn't hurt—and bends down to her son, cupping his jaw gently and softening immediately as she looks into his imploring eyes.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I know this has been hard on you. I promise—" She swallows the anxiety twisting and coiling at the thought of subjecting Henry to Cora's critical eye and harsh tongue. Shielding her son from her mother meant taking up lodging at Snow White's rather than Cora's, a decision that invoked Cora's wrath and earned Regina a deluge of reproachful remarks without end. But it's also kept Henry from his beloved grandfather, and it seems that won't do. "I promise I'll take you to Grandpa once you're back. How's that sound?"

"Good," Henry says, a smile illuminating his features and dwindling again as he lays a hand on her cheek. "Don't worry, Mom. I can handle Grandma."

Regina blinks. He's nine. _Nine_. Leopold, and Roman custom, may have other ideas and expectations of boys his age, but he's still a child. He shouldn't have to deal with the mess that's Regina's relationship with Cora—or, well, Cora in general with her over-the-top expectations and questionable values. Or with the cruel farce that's Regina's marriage, for that matter. Moments like this, when her little prince strives to take on the role of her protector, have her heart aching and melting at the same time, wondering how fast time is slipping through her fingers, how fast her baby is growing up, and what a wonderful young man he's getting to be.

"I know you can," she smiles sadly. "But let's not worry about Grandma now, okay? You're supposed to be having fun this weekend—and we wouldn't want to be late for that, right?"

Henry nods and holds out his hand to her as she rises again, drawing her cloak tighter about her. It doesn't quite cover the exquisite fabrics she's wearing underneath, but at least the simple, thin material of the light palla makes her less obviously out of place in these parts. They weave between people hurrying to and fro, take a right turn to avoid an ill-famed brothel, and the closer they get, the gloomier Regina becomes. It's never easy for her to part from Henry, to leave him in the hands of others—even though she's come to trust them, even though he's safe and full of excitement and stories every time she picks him up again.

They're already waiting when Regina and Henry emerge at the four-storey apartment building, the large hound chained at the entrance wagging its tail at the familiar sight of them. Henry skips ahead to greet the man and woman beaming at him, and Regina exchanges a few pleasantries with the blonde before bidding her son goodbye for two excruciatingly long days.

"I'll see you soon," she assures herself more than Henry as she hugs him closer, then wills herself to let go. "Be good for Emma and Neal."

* * *

Robin writes by night.

Not with quill on parchment, for he has neither. Instead it's his mind that weaves words together. Not weaves, for he seems to lack eloquence when it comes to this task—stitches them together, and even those arduous stitches aren't particularly neat but rather pinched and uneven, undone and redone time and time again. Letters to…no one, ultimately.

For Robin discards them all by morning, only to go right back to the start.

By day, the ludus' surface of normalcy is rippled by an undercurrent of chance meetings and secret plotting. Even though it lacks substance yet, it might just be enough to get them all killed. And in a place like this, even the walls have ears.

"You're one of us now, you know," John mumbles in the dead of night, his words reverberating in the silence of their cell. "A slave just like the rest. We're no better, and no better off, than those born into the wretched state."

"I know that," Robin hisses, for truly he does.

"Then why hesitate?" John's pallet rustles, and Robin imagines the man must have shifted to prop his head up in his elbow so as to better see him. Robin's been under constant scrutiny these days after all—the supervisors' attentions joined by those of his fellow gladiators, suspicious of Robin's lack of enthusiasm or participation. Yet John's tone is curious rather than accusatory. "You're not a coward, Robin, or a traitor—unless I've suddenly become an awful judge of character."

"You have not."

"Is it your boy? Is this about Roland?" John takes Robin's silence as confirmation, and grunts sympathetically—he's become rather fond of Roland during the little charmer's visits with Robin. "We'll get him out, no worries. Plenty of us have families to think of. Doing it for them as well as ourselves."

Robin makes no response. He doesn't have one for Little John. He's not quite done figuring them out for himself either.

Obviously Roland is always his primary concern, so he could easily say yes and stop there. It would only be part-truth, however. Does he abhor the exploitation of the lowest of the low? Certainly he does, and not only now that he's experienced it firsthand. Do the ties of brotherhood, imposed initially upon them by Hades but given meaning by themselves, bind him to their common cause? Undeniably his own distancing act has him wrought with no little amount of guilt. A shameful little corner of his heart—or mind, rather—is reluctant to fan the flame of resistance so lacking a solid plan for execution. This could perhaps be remedied though. Robin is not too shabby a strategist—he could contribute here, be a valuable asset.

And yet.

How could Robin ever hope to explain the fears and doubts rooted so deep in his heart he can't quite weed them out? He'd already lost Marian while fighting Rome's battles, only to have Rome spit in his face and provide no line of defence in the face of greedy adversaries slowly and sneakily stripping him of land and name. The day is forever etched in his soul when he, released from a decade of military service, had finally stumbled through the threshold of his home only to find Marian on her deathbed and a newborn Roland squealing next to her. Perhaps if he'd been there, he could have helped, and she could have lived. But his duty to his family had had to come second to his duty to Rome.

That was the establishment he'd fight when, cheated out of his property, he turned to stealing and robbery to provide for Roland and himself, as well as other unfortunates whenever he could, until the day he was caught breaking into the aedile's grain supplies.

And now here he is.

It's also the establishment, the very same one, the slaves' revolt would be fighting—and yet Robin's reluctant. In his days as thief, he used to make it a point to work alone, occasionally enlisting the assistance of beggars and pickpockets and entertainers of all sorts, but only to the extent they came to no harm should he be caught. But a feat like this? Too many lives are on the line, too much room for mistake, the potential consequences much too grave. Gods know many innocent lives Robin had extinguished in his military days—either by sword or through the destruction left in the Roman legions' wake—and how often his sleep is haunted by nightmares in which he revisits those bleak times.

No matter the righteousness of the cause, people would inevitably be caught in the crossfire. Roland is in Rome, living in the lap of luxury, under the wing of a woman against whom, on account of her class, Robin's being asked to raise arms, but whose character and actions merit no such fate.

How many more like her are there?

Surely plenty more, reason dictates.

Not a single one, part of him immediately claps back—a part he's been trying valiantly to keep in check. There's no point denying his feelings for Regina anymore. Lying to himself would just be disrespecting his true self, and Robin is an honest man. No one else can find out, of course, for that would bring nothing but doom. But Robin does know, has accepted the ache of _missing_ is no longer solely for his precious boy and for flighty freedom, but also for a stunning woman with dark locks and a heart filled with more light than she knows, and even for a young lad whose heart in turn shines with the purest, truest belief in good.

Robin is afraid for them all.

He may be a thief and a slave, but he has a code, and, now more than ever, he must live by that code. Stay true to it even when the going gets rough. Do what's right, no matter what.

The only question is, what _is_ right, and how does he do right by everyone?

* * *

Regina, battling the dejection ever present when Henry is not, wanders through Mal's door the next morning to find the cure ready.

"You're welcome, little one," Mal cuts her off before Regina's gratitude even has a chance to be poured into words, and hands her a stoppered vial filled with amber liquid. When a delighted squeal greets them from the other end of the shaded peristyle, she adds: "On both accounts."

They both chuckle as an elated Roland barrels into Regina's legs, throwing little arms around her and setting her momentarily off balance. He prattles on about Mal's unicorn (a pony she's outfitted with a horn—a trick Henry also used to fall for happily as a toddler), and the dragon perched on top of her walking stick (once a real beast of flesh and blood, Auntie Mal told him, and now her miniature protector), and of the secret cave in the verdure of her cool garden hiding a silver treasure he's been digging to uncover. He looks happy enough, and Regina throws Mal another thankful look, one that's met with a nod and a smile that grows as Mal glances at the little boy, who can't seem to stop gushing about the adventures they've had together. Pulling on Regina's hand, he insists on showing her, and the two women follow him with matching smiles.

"We'll be off in a few days," Regina says even as Mal glares and waves a dismissive hand. "Just as soon as Daddy's well again."

"I already said I'll be glad to watch him, Regina, so please don't act like either of you is a burden. I'm not your bitch of a mother to object to a sweet child because of his parentage or some bullshit criteria of mine he doesn't fulfil. Besides, ever since Lily disappeared gods only know where, I've been—" Mal shrugs with a watery smile before admitting to what Regina already knows, "—well, lonely."

Regina lays a hand on Mal's shoulder—Henry's only been gone one night and his absence is crushing. She can sympathise.

"Have you heard from her lately?"

"Last thing I know, she was about to board a ship bound for Athens—although what she hopes to find there, I'm really not sure."

The obvious answer, the one reserved for the prying public, would be her father, a man long since believed dead after a terrible construction accident at one of his many properties buried half the workers. Mal has confided in Regina that she believes him alive and well somewhere far away, living the good life and caring nothing for the daughter allegedly seeking her roots. Mal now runs the business along with Lily, who's seized the chance to break out of the confines of Roman womanhood and travels around, extending the business by purchasing and renting buildings outside Rome proper. A transparent excuse to elude the status quo, but one that passes thanks to Mal's reputation of a most dangerous woman when crossed.

Regina envies the girl who's managed what she never could.

Something—a twitch of muscle or her wistful look—must betray her sentiment to her friend and mentor.

"Go back to Capua," Mal tells her earnestly. "Rome doesn't become you."

It really doesn't. It's never agreed with her—she'd dreamed of green pastures and tall mountains, of fragrant forests and gorgeous groves, of rivers running for miles upon miles and vast Oceanus encircling the world. A simpler life than the bustle of Rome, the heart of the empire with its rules and regulations made to be bent and broken with cunning and artfulness she's learnt to wield but never to relish, could ever provide.

And, of course, Capua happens to have the added advantage of the person of a certain gladiator constantly hovering at the edge of her mind.

"I will," Regina nods. "As soon as Daddy—"

"With the antidote I fixed him, your father needs perhaps three days of your attention, no more. A full week, and he'll be as good as new. Start packing."

The very prospect has Regina breathing a sigh of relief even as ominous clouds swirl and swarm the blue skies.

* * *

Robin pays an exorbitant sum to procure ink and parchment, paying extra for discretion there's still no guarantee of. He's going to reach even deeper into his earnings in exchange for delivery once he finds the right words and right messenger. Correspondence isn't forbidden exactly, but this kind surely would be, and Robin in particular has his privileges curtailed still, cutting him off from the outside world. This must be achieved in secret. Privacy is scarce and so is ink, therefore Robin spends any lull in activity pondering his options and constructing the letter he's decided to pen in his mind.

What does he tell her, and how much? How does he even address her? Not by name, for that would implicate her if something went awry. He can't send the message directly to her for the same reason. He can't sign it with his own name either, for the connections between her and anyone he chooses as middleman—or -woman—would be much too easy to trace.

After much agonising, the wording is settled upon and stored safely in his memory. He finds himself a messenger all right, an errand boy all too happy to earn some coin and see mighty Rome in the process. Late at night, when the darkness is blackest, Robin scribbles his letter blindly in hopes that the scratching of the quill will be swallowed by Little John's hearty snores.

Shortly after dawn, Robin hands this note over to the messenger:

 _My lady, apologies for being so bold as to approach you in this manner. I_ _'ve taken every precaution to keep you safe in case my letter is intercepted. There've been recent developments I cannot disclose in writing but would discuss in person. As I cannot come to you, I would ask that you come to me instead. May the roads of Campania treat you well. Signed, —_

At dusk, half a dozen guards snatch him from his cell, and he knows the letter will never reach its destination.

* * *

 ** _Thumbs up? Thumbs down?_** _ **This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)**_


End file.
